I always say I hate this city
but it keeps offering
small arguments otherwise.
That night
you took me to a taproom
dressed like a speakeasy—
low light,
a password at the door,
a flight of gin
and pear-cinnamon vodka
that tasted like winter
trying to be charming.
We toasted quietly
to whatever comes next.
Later
in the crisp February air
an astronomer traced the constellations
and showed us galaxies
billions of miles from here.
Then he pointed—
Cassiopeia.
“Hey, I know that one!”
I said it before I could stop myself.
I’d spotted her
on the walk up the driveway.
You smiled
the way you do
when you know exactly
why something delights me.
And somewhere between
secret doors,
pear-cinnamon vodka,
and a hunter named Orion
holding his place in the sky—
I remembered:
maybe a city
is just a map
of the nights
you loved me well.
