If I were somehow recruited to draw a portrait of SF
it would resemble a cartoon boy with a grey cloud above his head.
You carry a crown of fog a solid 10 out of the 12 months
and every morning of all 365-66 days in a year
It's not the type of fog that hovers,
it's the type that accumulates,
weighs down on each of its victim's shoulders
then grips hold of their neck
until each force of breath is a challenge.
And I am trying to love you.
Built you a place in my heart the moment I got off the plane
but my heart is empty
and there's a heaviness in my stomach.
I think you were misdirected.
I didn't mean to swallow you.
I meant to inject you
like crack.
Cause I heard it's more addictive
and I didn't wanna end up missing my gateway drug.
I smoked weed in Colorado.
And the residue is coming back as "I miss you" coating the walls of my airwaves
Between you around my neck and it clogging my throat,
it's becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe.
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