Remember how close we sat in Piedmont Park under the magnolia trees? We told ghost stories while the strap of your red bra fell from your shoulder, and I wanted nothing more than to touch you then, to hook my finger under the strap and return it to its proper place. I felt similarly out of place all weekend, like a weed growing out of the pavement, strangers spilling out from every room, all of them unknowable, but you.
Love Letters to San Francisco: Southern Detour
- Post author:anna
- Post published:October 9, 2013
- Post category:feature / love letters / writing
- Post comments:0 Comments