Manhattan was Ava’s dream first—
          and I knew it the second
          we got to LaGuardia… (4 hours early!)

          government shutdown chewing through security,
          poor kid trapped in the line
          while I held down the Admiral’s Club
          and pretended not to worry.

She wanted Broadway.

She wanted Spring Break
     in capital letters.

So we gave the city
   everything it asked for:

   Ragtime,
   The Outsiders,
   Hadestown,
   Buena Vista Social Club—

   and somewhere between marquees
       and bodega light
           and the permanent siren hum
   of a city that never once apologizes,

   I watched her get exactly the kickoff she’d hoped for.

I took a pass on Book of Mormon.

Could’ve gone.
Had the seat.

But I’d been saving that one too long
    for the wrong person to be absent.

Wouldn’t have felt right
         laughing next to an empty chair…

         when I already knew who belonged in it.

We’ll pick our own shows later,
      when we decide to light The Big Apple on fire together.

For now, the weekend victories:

Local 42,
      a real-deal dive
      full of locals giving me that
      “you found our church” look,
      bartenders who actually care,
      and a nine-dollar cheeseburger

      that had no business being that good.

A camera rig, too—
  because apparently I can’t be trusted
                    around a Nikon sale.

So now I’m carrying around
   enough glass and buttons
   to document the whole damn spring,

   whether it asked to be remembered or not.

Dispensaries…
             self-explanatory.

And then the constant thing,
    the one that matters more
    than any drink or show or deal:

    your thread.

Always on.
Not loud.
Not flooding the phone.

Just steady.
A current.
A pulse.

A slipped-in
  “I miss you”
  from you,
  a few from me,
  both of us trying not to make too much of it

  while very obviously making everything of it.

That’s the part
     that kept finding me—
     not in the theater,
     not in Times Square,
     not even at the bar—

     but in the seat beside me
      every time I looked over
              and knew exactly
              who wasn’t there.

Now we point back toward DFW,
              Playa tomorrow,
 one more beachfront chapter
for Ava’s spring break story.

And me?

I’m already adding another line
    to the list of things

    I wish you were here to share.

That list is getting ridiculous,
                     by the way.

We’re gonna have to start crossing some off
      before it turns into its own borough.

Until then,
      The Big Apple goes in the books
      as Ava’s city this week—

      and you,
      as the empty seat
      that somehow still managed
      to make the whole place feel full.