Immeasurable

I think taxis are romantic.  To Woody Allen, New York might be a city that exists forever in black and white, but to me New York City is forever bright like the lights that blur and blend together outside a taxi window.  To me, the city is the FRD Drive between 96^th Street and the Brooklyn Bridge Expressway, where – from the backseat of a taxi – I can see Queens and Brooklyn and the best of the Manhattan skyline.  New York is the rush of the breeze off the East River when I roll the window down as a taxi takes me home on a Saturday night; I like the thrill of the rush.  I love kissing in the back of a taxi.  I like the way the rush of the car’s movement mingles with the rush of my blood and a man’s hands on my waist and in my hair and the thrill of lips on lips.  I like seeing the bright lights of the city slightly obscured by a face against mine.  I like when a kiss feels as bright and hopeful and thrilling as the city looks.  And I don’t intend to settle for anything less than that rush.  That’s why I live in New York, after all.  I want to romanticize life all out of proportion.  And I want a life and a love that can measure up.