It was late November in Los Angeles,
back when it still used to rain.
In that old apartment in which everything felt
filtered yellow, like coffee stained teeth.
The walls, like you, were too thin;
at times I could hear your neighbor crying.
We used to drink, and head up to the rooftop,
where we would smoke too many cigarettes
and loudly declare our love.
Our aesthetic was broke and romantic.
Drunkenly admiring one another like
we admired the city
by romanticizing it's flawed demeanor.
"...don't you remember me babe,
I remember you quite well..."
I sang to you while I ran my cold fingers
through your soft waves.
You hated Dylan but joked
that I nailed it, and
began warm my hands with your breath.