I watched you driving away from me in my mind. My plane banking in the opposite direction from your line of sight. Going home but leaving it behind in a white california classic. I put my hand out and left it on your leg as my eyes read the lines of the novel, I was caught in the middle seat. The girl next to me was crying, but I only felt a little hollow, like there’s a space now that’s empty. A tenuous thread of warmth spooling down to you through your window and the moonlight and sodium lamps on your skin. I was glad it was dark outside, I could only see a lava glow shimmer of the city being left behind. An okay surrounding pan shot of the ground glittering and the plane above, white belly climbing.
I’m back from L.A. It’s cold here, but it was when I left. Ice on the ground and up by the moon, the deciduous trees looking out of place after only a week. I can’t find the palm trees, I can see the edge of the city from my balcony door window. The jigsaw puzzle doesn’t like putting together my earlier day of sun and beaches and ferris wheel rides with this grid of streets I know better than anyone. How long does it take for everything to converge? I feel like I opened my eyes into a different world, a smaller one, with wettish handshakes.
I should clean my room some more.