I keep wanting to write about the rain.
The percussive notes, the sharp grind of wind whipped droplets - paper cuts made of hydrogen and oxygen. To complain about the cold creeping inside, my 1920's uninsulated apartment with lightly insulated windows that rattle and croak when the winds off the Pacific Ocean barrel over the rooftops around us.
But I really want to write about this city - and how it's sucked me in, how I never imagined myself here, how I wake up alive and smiling (sometimes groaning, it's true). How I fuck under the fog. And fight. And seek for forgiveness, assert my capacity and play. The archaeology I walk along rooting into me; ivy consuming my walls and terraces.
Or that I really want to say that I've forgotten it all, that I've moved on from my old home, have left behind my lover and lifeline. That I've excavated what has made me, hollowed it out and began new.
Hidden in the desires is a truth I begrudgingly accept and begin to recognize as salvation. Every step worthy of adulation, bending at the knees and kissing the feet. A history hidden on my skin, seeping out through my teeth - gliding across my tongue.
How what I really want to say is that I miss you, all of you, every bit of you, and the multitude. I bury and build. I chop wood and carry water.
And then I do it again. And again.
Dead skin becomes a mountain, the heartache a triumph and endings becoming finish lines. Letter by letter we build.