I’m writing to you from the heart of L.A.
Because my healing process
Just isn’t going the way
I imagined.
I’m having trouble, you see,
With shedding this body, of me,
Because I can still see the imprints of your kisses
And feel the soft dance of your fingertips
Across my skin.
I try to do anything random
To make me happy;
Driving through neighborhoods in Rosemead,
Having my chakras aligned at a random sound bath therapy,
Driving to Long Beach just to write by the sea,
Picking lemons and oranges from the citrus trees
Within my favorite park,
Because when I pour their juices over my broken heart,
The sting brings a feeling, or a memory,
That only you could ignite in me after dark.
Everything I do, I do with the thought of you
And that’s strange for me to admit because
Even after all the California earthquakes you shifted
My grounds to,
And all the pink noise I try to drown thoughts of you out to;
Like driving late at night down Sunset and Vine
While my brother talks to me
About his favorite rapper’s documentary
But I’m only half listening
Because I’m too distracted
About what I’ve just learned about Van Gogh,
He only ever sold one painting in his lifetime
So you can imagine how emotional I get each time
I question why, why I do this
Why I try,
When nobody reads these melancholic thoughts of mine.
However throughout all of this,
There’s one thought that won’t run away from me;
It only talks about how much
I love you

M.H. John