Another one to California

originally written oct 2016. 


You've gone longer to me I remembered.
A friend knew better the other night - it was two years instead of one.
It was more holidays, more stories, and more nights happy at that diner than I remembered.
So I thought of you and California, like I do when there's room. Thought of that strange night with the french film and the Beast. How you said goodbye to inanimate decorations, weird, and how we talked and kissed and danced in the kitchen, and thought everything atop each other all at once, it's just a blur. Like it was always.
And then I thought of Christmas; and no more.

Cause we're lovers on the fates that we don't know or give a damn. Cause I've moved twice now since and don't know your address anymore, as it goes. The Kent won't have me sitting in that booth to surprise, and planes I hear don't fly this way.

Because you never did come home.

And I never do stay on the level of reality you say. I like the passion and the poetry - and saying things we couldn't mean. I like the stories you crafted far better, and where it took us to all the lands and mess and quite dangerous - revelry.

So maybe two years will become 20. Maybe this is the last time finally. But oh, how sad that'll be to miss it all.
How we're long gone, long aged, and long lying still (what trickery!). I hardly remember anymore when exactly that all was. I hardly remember it should end - me telling secrets in code and letting it go. Letting memories just sit beside like old friends do.
Me going back to the woman I knew.







. . .