French Letter

 His red Converse always moved to the beat and the music was everywhere. Most of the time, headphones were in his ears, spilling rhymes he didn’t hear. He would argue he didn’t hear any of it. He felt it. Felt it in his blood as it moved through him, carrying him from this life onto wherever those shoes took him. Should the odd chance happen that it was inappropriate to wear his beats, he sauntered to the beat of the chatter, of the traffic, or of the symphony in his head. The world was never silent. He was sure if there was a hell, it was silence, and it’d be deafening. 

His hair bobbed along with each step on the sparkling streets. New York had never been so beautiful. He would tell anyone that listened that faeries must walk amongst men. They ordered Chinese at three in the morning and bought fresh bagels at dawn. They helped guide the snowfall in Central Park. Snow he marred with his quirky steps as he looked in awe around him. 

Hands shoved in deep pockets he pressed on. Never stopping. Never wavering. His soul was a fire that no element could extinguish. 

He had a studio in SoHo that he couldn’t afford. His best buddy tried to make him an influencer videoing him as he strolled through the city. No one cared and he never noticed. The music played on and carried him higher. He was a no one in an anonymous city. A caged bird that loved to sing. 

He liked to make up names when ordering coffee and some days he was Mark. Some days he was Luke. He wanted to see the variations of marker spellings. Cafés were great for vibing. Great for his subtle dancing as he walked to get his scone. He’d sit and watch for the great ones that made his city come alive. He wrote poetry and love letters to no one and everyone on paper napkins  and coasters. Sometimes he’d leave them behind but more often than not, they would be tossed in the trash by the exit on his way out. He was a soul not meant for this world.