April 16, 2014

Where Hearts Get Left

This is what San Francisco feels like when the fog rolls in after a hot day. The first flourishes of cold wisp against warmed skin, a heavy mist that feels like a spreading smile. The fondness grows and the late fall heat wave falls into infamous steam.

--

I want to wait with you at bus stops
I want to lean on you in the rain
I want you to be mine and me to be yours
I want everything, again

Follow me down steep stairways
Crash into heavy sheets
Run past familiar haunts
Trip down those winding streets

Take everything unbroken
Build new but with a simpler core
Laugh every single day
Make the stuffs of lore

--


The fog blows on now, rolling and rocking over green hills, whispering through pine trees, leaving sparkling condensation on these heavy rocks. The sidewalks slick, the streets slicker under taxi cab wheels, a great whir and swish about the city blankets our hearts and clouds most judgment.

2 comments:

RETA said...

Your beautiful words paint a picture!

RETA@ http://evenhaazer.blogspot.com

Doug Pascover said...

Hi Rio;

I lost RSS and therefore, touch. Both metaphorically and the sense itself.

Hope all is well enough by you. It's wonderful to read you again.