Lifeline.

Verticality. Try not to slip. Somewhere in between freedom and a prison. Remember?
We would transfer to Grand Central back in November, December, alive from the snow. The letters we traced in the ice, the summer that melted out of our mouths. Getting lost at Port Authority and asking if I could hold your hand. Dripping with the walk and the speakers. The steel trains. It took us, what, half an hour to be found again, underground gold, and remember how I ended up kissing five people that night, and you too?
Was I a fool?
Would you do it again?