Now you wait in the rippling air,
twisting my second self harder than my first,
who waits for you like the Second Coming,
or an apparition, if only you’d appear
and give shape to shapeless thought,
tempest waters between mind and heart.
Buried pain laid plainly on dreamy canvas:
You look different, but speak the same.
A Polaroid bleeds into a flame –
how can you say things aren’t so bad?
I say it’s almost over
and feel how boring I’ve become
and lose you
as San Francisco becomes a prairie
and the stars fall into our shower
where we sit like children
and I look at the faded tattoos you don’t have.
That song plays, I’m stuck in that cold space in Oakland,
stuck on you, old love
in an old city, forgotten and for good.
– Los Angeles, CA