That I think about it as much as I do really surprises me.


And it felt totally different after the month in NYC, in a good way.

I liked knowing my guys who sold me all kinds of herbs early every Friday at the farmer’s market. And my guys who knew my order so well that even when the line was around the block, when I got up to the counter my latte and Madeline cookie was waiting for me. And nodding sup to Lundgren like he was Scythian fam as I went about my writerhead shit.

…Maybe I’m just homesick for the flow I had there with you in my ear, or bubbling up in my grill anytime it was all trying to capsize me.

…Maybe I’m not coming home because I’m waiting for you to tell me to, louder than you do now.

Maybe it’s not Venice at all.

Maybe it’s kinda you.

Maybe I can’t come back because that being true without you utterly on my ass howling come play could drive me insane lol.

…But who the fuck knows.

…Might just be time for a bit of pedestrian poetry as the sun tosses its cards to the winds.

…Maybe I just want you to drag me out of this revelry on this mountain by my hair, kissing the fuck outta me…Maybe I’d try ta kill ya if ya tried lol.

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