Winter comes later and later each year. I leave my coats in the trunk of my car, and if they’re particularly cheap, and if summer was a particular bastard, they start to crack and split apart at the seams.
Most days I wake up sore, as if I fought for sleep to come. As if all I had was the strength to allow the heft of sleep to bruise my bones and not give in. Most people are lonely. I see it mostly when I’m driving, especially on those nostalgic November evenings when the whole world turns black by 5:27 p.m.
Sweaters don’t really cut it for me, they tend to just wrap around me like most of my ex-lovers, carelessly and uncommitted.
We’re like the unicorns of the land, where we only get half a season that usually looks like a soggy rainbow. That’s the perfect way to describe; Los Angeles.
The outskirts are even worse.
I think that’s why love is so hard to find in this city.
It’s never like it was on those sad summer-school mornings, when the heat sat stagnant on the concrete, and singed the soles of your feet if your shoes were cheap.
Geometry, Algebra and Trigonometry.
Snakes in science class but not cause that’s the way it was but because the boy with the hoodie sitting in the back of class decided that it’d be best if he brought it in. Said it got lonely. And one by one the kids would hover over him and reach their grubby hands into his pocket and feel the slick glide of the hidden serpent.
Things were easier then.