Dear Anonymous,
Two days and he had me waiting with my fingertips clenched in sweat-hope for something, something, anything to happen. Mad rants for five dollars, noodle soup with tabasco, the way cinco de mayo landed on the sixth and margaritas were impossible...
and I’ve been nothing but high for four days. Smoking, gutter punks, hippie drivers, taxi ranters, the world - this mad world in this lop-sided city and still you scream to me. Two thousand miles and your voice echoes in these memories I keep finding myself writing on paper. How is it I tell you? Grow up, move out, live life, just move.. and I’m not sure what it is I saw in San Francisco – it should have been here. This. This, city. This place with high ceilings, music, music everywhere. This city is music. Nothing makes sense and I am grinning at this muddy river.
There are still these scars; those days when I carried razors in my cigarette box chipping red into the cellophane wrapper. And each time you smoked one, you smoked right through me.
Somehow, I wish I still knew you. somehow.
I miss you.
and I’m surrounded and I’m not so lost and I’m finally me.
alexis
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