281/365 Free-write from Jovan's work-shop

I have a pen in my pocket to trace snowflakes falling outside my window but once they hit the horizon,
they fade into ice caps for the mountains
that are so far from my house but so near to my mind.
It’s nearing Christmas and instead of snowflakes I am tracing branches hit the falling from the Christmas tree ripped from mother nature’s body and erected in Union Square like some sort of victory tribute. These snowflakes are made of paper and the fog San Francisco shoves into my face as if my tears weird enough.
I am missing the sound of my mother nagging my step-dad for not putting up the small but fake Christmas tree into our living room.
I’m missing my dog barking at our guest.
---San Francisco tears from the Bay and wraps me in sadness on the mornings when I think I might not make it.
I am swimming though tidal waves just to make it to my bed dripping wet in depression. I slide the sopping clothes off of my skin and slide into bed and immediately feel a significant dryness my throat.-------