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.