Waking up on the other side of the country feels different.
It smells different; it tastes different; it looks different.
Enlightening is the word that comes to mind.
The only unsettling thing is this new nomadic lifestyle:
Waking up in a new hotel room everyday
Writing on notepads, hiding letters to future wanderers
Living out of weekly suitcases and travel bags
Continental breakfasts and squeaky elevator doors
Dry heat and mountainous nose bleeds
I record voice memos just to remind myself that I have a voice
I touch the street corners off of Sunset blvd. just to feel something
And it's fun to pretend that we spent time here once, alone
In a time long ago before it was overcrowded with binoculars, maps, and overgrown sunglasses
That we had our own places, you and I
We were regulars at the Coffee Bean off of Argyle Avenue
That the clerks at the Grove knew us by name
We were one, and we shed all, if any, discomforts down Fairfax
And, as it was in their nature, the crowds would smile
As if they knew that it was some kind of celebrity crush
But the hotel sheets aren't as soft as I remember
The company a bit bleak and lyrics a bit dim
And it's hard to duck under mirrors everyday
Without anyone getting a little suspicious
As I begin to scream your name throughout the canyons,
And whistle your songs in every crevice of this place,
I'll live everyday by your voice and your aching presence
That seems to surround every pulsing muscle wrapped around my shaking bones
It isn't your fault that your needs weren't met here on the west coast
But it won't stop me from recreating you on every mountainside.
