Dear San Diego,
One day it'll hit you. Like a wave. Like a cannonball.
They don't teach it in school.
Life; you figure that out yourself.
Add and subtract, write and erase, spell names burned into you; the photographs of faces, of touch. Sunsets and rainstorms, laughter and screaming, birth and death. The war zones of the heart.
Love, loss, joy, regret, the truth. None of them, all of them, real.
We are bound here together strangers, never the same field of vision, the guesses and agreements of shared perception lined with unknowns.
I walk out sometimes at dusk into the field and just stand there and let the wind push and pull at me. Like the breath of the universe, of the past and train tunnel future. I close my eyes and spread my fingers and reach out looking for something, someone, that is not there. I hear the voices of children distant, feel the pure moments of youth; your first kiss, how your heart leapt, how you floated.
I've been laying on the roof at night lately. I've been studying the stars study me.
She is up there somewhere.
And I miss her.