gut instincts

everywhere i look around, the city is changing. the vacant lot on corinthia where we sat one night in the light rain, sharing a bottle of jameson; it is now a glossy high rise condo--all polished silver and blue glass.

the metal gates of the storefront, where we read the 1994 graffiti like heiroglyphics that somehow managed to survive; it has been painted over.

the hole in the wall chinese where we went after The Big Fight, so many nights ago, and you looked up at me between bites with a mix of anger and love, a realization that we were in it for the long haul; it sits empty and dark--how fitting.

i'm telling myself it's time to leave. i explain away my reluctance towards anything these days with the expression "that chapter is closed". i say it to the brash young friend i haven't seen since college. i say it to the meek girl with the small pearl earrings when she asks to see me again. i say it to myself when i pass our block in a quick, teeth-gritted stride.

it's warming ever so slightly. the buds on the trees look like small neon pineapples. i have dreams at night that they bloom instantly, sheaves of green dappled in fresh rainfall. it stays 50 degrees and clouds move overhead, out to the sea. it's fast forward and slow motion fighting a tug of war in the night time.

perhaps there is a warmer place, where i can get lost in the perpetual full bloom, lay in the shadows, find new storefronts. the breeze at night, the sirens wailing up the road, the burn of smoke down my throat on the first drag, and none of it--absolutely none--will remind me of all of this, all of what we felt.

that chapter is closed.