Los Angeles is humming beyond the tall palms, and off in the distance sirens trail by. Across the alley, someone's listening to a preacher speak on forgiveness in a tone fit for a child in trouble, on a radio fit for a time long passed.
It's the last week of Summer and she's not going quietly. Quiet's not a word we use here anymore.
I can still see lightning against the mountains from this balcony that isn't mine, and the dusk air hangs damp and heavy, like an evening in Florida. Has it really been two years? If I close my eyes and wait for the cars to pass, I can still hear the Indian splashing against the dock on the night I asked God why he let me pick you. Free will is a curse I'd quickly undo for the gift of ignorance to this kind of alone.
It's not that I miss you, I just forget how it feels to hold every word in my hands instead of my head. And some days I think my bones may just shatter if they don't feel the joints of another and remember how to bend.
A tiny plane is gaining elevation above these 1960's rooftops and I wonder if the passengers on board can see the Summer storm they're headed towards. The Pilot knows the course. Will he warn them of the turbulence ahead? Or will their stomachs rise to their throats when they realize they're in the thick of it with only a stranger by their side?
I'm still a sucker for the unexpected drop. I'm still booking a ticket tonight.