Sometimes it’s easier to fall in love with cities than it is with people. Take, for example, New York – a monolithic tangle of skyscrapers and spires, or Paris – full of poetic details and varying shades of grey, or Chicago – windy and sunny summers with shiny windows reflecting the inherent bustle at stop lights. Places that hold special moments in time, suspended within the corner cafes and parking garages, lingering in old bookstores and taxi cabs, mingling with the smoggy air of the streets. My favourite memories are cradled within these sprawling human centres.

But what do you have to offer me? You’re a person. You’re a tangle of long limbs and a mop of messy brown hair. You’re hardly a city. Yet, you gaze at me with those piercing eyes and I feel as vulnerable and exhilarated as I do in the streets of Manhattan – where the people passing by on the street and the windows of monolithic buildings are all silent, are all watching me. Perhaps you’re my own private, portable, New York, Paris, Tokyo, Chicago, whatever.

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