I am a cheater. I cannot help it.

I’ll come clean and admit it; I get tempted.

I am weak. Sometimes I simply cannot be faithful.

Whenever a younger, sexier, more beautiful one comes along, I have a mad, passionate affair.

That lust for life and adventure and passion wells up inside of me, and I feel aroused and alive and young and almost ready to burst, and I long to explore and to fall in lust again.

It can be the stunning view of a million stars while lying on a carpet in the middle of the Sahara Desert, or floating on my back in the ocean in a tiny village in Bali, or sipping fancy mocktails outside of my bungalow in Thailand. There is always a new place to discover, new people to meet, new food to taste, new music to be seduced by.

 

 

But then, once the excitement and newness wears off and I come home, I always realize that I truly love you, NYC.

I may stray once in awhile when I get mad or annoyed, or when I look at you and see how old and dirty you are, and some sweet, sexy, pretty sunset calls my name.

Perhaps I am polyamorous and may need to live in another city for a few months at a time.

But oh, NY, you know it didn’t mean anything, right?

It meant nothing to me. It was just lust, and I am oh so weak.

You know I love you. You know I’ll always come back. You are, after all, the greatest city in the world, in spite of your harsh, cold, bitter winters, and your filthy, hot, steamy summers.

Deep down I know that people would give anything to live here with you.

NY, I love you, flaws and all.

 

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