The last days of my spirit journey, when we rode the motorcycle up Pacific Coast Highway to Santa Barbara. How I clung to you as we roared by the waves and I gave the peace sign to an old couple with a Vietnam Veteran stickers on an old white Buick. It was cold and we drank coffee walking up State St. That hippie next to us at the motel. Eating junk food after we fucked on a neutral bed and cheap wallpaper. Watching ballet on a television from the 70’s and driving 20 miles in the night to a diner. Laughing over hot chocolate and pecan pie. Spending the next day laying on the beach, light reflecting on the water. The red of my sunburn and new freckles. Another fall spent with you, driving anywhere we felt like. I didn’t bother telling you I wanted to love you then. I won’t bother now.
Notes
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