When you read this I’ll be in LA
I don’t know where, exactly – in the last final, dwindling days of vacation I’m sure I’ll try to make the most of the sun. I’m sure I’ll be on a beach, or in Little Tokyo, or getting upset about things that don’t matter at all. I’ll be catching the sun from the window of a car and thinking, already, about all the things that I’ll lose come winter. I won’t have LA to look to, that’s for sure, and I won’t have the freckles or energy that I have in July. Not that I have much then, either – you know my ice-cold hands.
I don’t know if I’ll be sick of my friends or shedding tears over the flight back home. What I do know – what I hope I know – is that I’ll be over it, not obsessively wondering whether you care where I am. Not thinking again about every interaction, every breath, every glance. Not reduced again to a wreck, a person that I never thought I was; how can you see me shiver like that and still respect my strength?
LA is so far from here, and distance is strength
But what of me when I am home? When the blood-stained river, when the Angeles mountains, when the powerlines that I love to obstruct my view are long behind me. Who will I become? I’ll be cold, I’ll be tired – but will I think of you then? Trying to angle my days to make our paths collide. I do not like who I am when I am obsessive, that much is true. If I think of you still when I’ve a thousand palm trees to contend with, I do not know myself as well as I thought I did.
When you read this I’ll be in LA – if you care to read it at all.