Every hair on my body is raised, my
eyes water, my ears burn – and yet
the wind it still blows, viciously
it has been sent from the sea
to come over my town, and torture me

It is days like this – dark days, wet days
that i long for California. The rolling
hills, these little tiny towns – they
just don’t do it for me, anymore
If I never go back to California – and
feel that still, dry heat upon my skin
I hope that I can reach into myself
and find a West Coast in me, a tranquil
dry paradise sitting carefully, waiting
for me – inside my freezing chest

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