But Teacher, I Am Trying (My Best)

I am driving fast on the FDR, heading north and going Downtown while listening to a song called English Rose.
I like this.
I like hearing vintage songs from my past.
I like how this one reminds me of a movie called This Is England and the show which came around the movie released.

I love what this reminds me of.
I love the truth of life, which I feel when I think about my recent crash course with life and the fallouts of mistakes.

This Is England.
I love that show.

I love the tumultuous truth about love and work and life and how nothing goes right or easy—but in the end, real love is real love, real friends are real friends, and yes, it’s true, blood does not make (or not make) someone family.

I’ve never been to England.
Maybe one day.
But for now, I have other matters to tend to.

I am driving now, faster than I should be but then again, I am not what anyone would call a “slow driver,” and at the moment, I have an overtime shift and work that needs to be done.
So, this means I have to get there on time.
Safe to say that I am driving with a quick speed of urgency.
Safe to say that I want to get to my desk so I can send this out before my shift begins.
Or safe to say the imagination and my fantasies of her make me enjoy the Downtown scene, which is why I always look up at the tall buildings around The World Trade Center because my love affair remains changed but unbroken as well.

Ah, The City.

She is a mess at the moment. There is snow covering the streets and the sky is gray.
And this is life for now.
There is construction on the FDR which has been going on forever, and still, despite the chaos or the so-called unsightly things, she is a beautiful place to me.

The East River has frozen chunks of ice floating across the surface and me, I am driving faster now with more urgency because the time is getting close to my hours on the clock

Nothing is ever perfect.
Not even beauty.
My love is not perfect either.
Nor are my visions of love and yet, I say her imperfections are what makes her more beautiful to me, —and yes, I say more to emphasize her perfection in m eyes.
I say her imperfections are what turn me on because what she sees as flaws, I see as the extra sauce that makes her flavorful to me.
And I don’t mind her craziness.
Not at all.
In fact, I like it.
Crazy is hot to me.
So, call me crazy of you wish because if so, then yes.
I am guilty as charged.

It is crazy to think about how many years I have been around this place, and shuttling up and down or across New York City.
I have seen more changes than I can count and all the while, my love for her has remained constant—this is for my girl, I mean, and the city too, of course.

I don’t think we can always know or see or feel the experience of different cultures, which is why I believe it is important to expand or try new things.
I want to do this.
I want to make this happen.
I want to make this so and see the world from a different perspective.

I do not think that I will ever fall out of love.
No. My lust and love and my fascination has not changed in all of these years and yes, I realize my first encounter with my love began years ago.
But still, I see her in such a way.
And no, I do not believe that I can ever fall out of love .
At least, not the way others lose interest or allow themselves to become so passive or passionless.

No, I think I will spend the rest of my life, from now until my last breath, or from now until Heaven or the Devil redirect me, and even after this, I will always desire her or wonder what color she painted her toes.

I see things differently now.
I see everything far differently now from, say, two years ago when anger stole my tongue and resentments blinded my heart.

It is early morning now and the sun is making its way upwards.
My life and my heart are on course to make my way to where I am supposed to be—at least, for now.
I am where I am or I’m at where I’m at and so, it’s safe to say that I will be where I will be.
And hopefully, somehow, this puts me one step closer to an answer.
Yes, that would be nice.
My hope is that today places me one step closer to a dream, which I hope is bound to come true.

I don’t mind the tumultuous truths. And I don’t mind the scattered chaos or the broken edges of our imperfect places.
I say this makes up the good stuff.
I say that beauty is not a market which can be cornered and so, I say her and her beauty is something that can sing to me, —which is not to say that no one else can see or notice her or that she is beautiful.
No. Beauty is beauty and yes, she is beautiful to me.
Therefore, I understand she is beautiful to someone else as well.

At the same time, I swear—

No one will ever see her as beautiful as I do.
No one will ever adore her or worship her or appreciate her curves or live to touch her like I do.

It is true when they say absence makes the heart grow fonder
This is true because it seems like years since I have seen the object of my love—and still, to me, she is more beautiful than anyone else in the world. And still, my love grows and the ideas I have of making live to her grow as well.

No one holds a candle to her.
No one.
No one can drive me wild like she does.
And yes, of course, “It’s been a minute” since I have seen her in the flesh.
It’s been a while since I have seen her undressed and naked, but like I always say—when I listen, I hear her in my thoughts, and when I look, I see her in my dreams and on the movie screens behind the walls of my eyelids.

“But my only hope is that one day, soon, I will hold her in my arms. Forever!”

Even her tears, — which somehow fall and somehow arouse me for the sake that yes, she is beautiful and yes, her tears relate to sadness, but even this is beautiful about her.
At the same time, I suppose her emotions and her feelings or her heart is even more beautiful than her perfect exterior.

God, she is amazing.
I need to remind her of this.

I am not well today.
But no matter what or how I feel, work calls because life calls.
And so, whether I am not well or healthy, the end of the month still comes.

The tax man still needs his share.
The landlord is not here to donate my residence, and bills will mount, no matter how much I plea for leniency.

the sone is over and I am about to park my car

English Rose—

It’s a quiet song.
Maybe sad to some
But the meaning of this to me is a brilliant thing on a gloomy morning like this one.

“No matter where I roam, I will return to my English Rose.
For no bonds can ever keep me from she”