Vespa, off white. Classic, vintage- looking.
Crisp morning air, the smell of happiness. My name called out by voices that sound like different versions of my mother and my grammy.
Sunlight shining through the spaces between branches that hold on to oranging leaves. My feet, on steady ground. Cement marked with history that i get to add on to. The world, shifting, shifting but for the very, very first time, taking me with it.
A car close to extinction, old fabric interior. Life within a life, home within home. Polaroids tacked to the dashboard, jacket tossed into the seat on my right. Windows wound down and Sara Bareilles on repeat.
Distinctly asian smells in non-asian places. Oh, that song. That odd chilly breeze. What once served to bring back memories, becomes one that brings back memories of bringing back memories.
Frisco, with its color and slopes and art and joy. With its life, that fills you, infects you and makes you want to want it to seep from your very pores.
And late afternoons, in the empty aisles of hypermarts, looking but not seeing. Leaving only with a pack of smokes even though you've still got a full pack in your purse, and your fridge is empty.
Pass the tea and sympathy becomes the phrase scrawled in curly letters on the walls on the inside of your head.
Window, smoke and port, cat by my right foot. Familiarity in moments that feel just a tad too cold. And, the thought of you.
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