Dear Chicago,
Remember that one summer when everything felt like eraly morning suburban lawns. wet grass that stuck to our shoes from running across other peoples front yards, laughing like loons, holding hands, crimped fingers, sweet breath on each other's necks. ?

The most recent heatwave brings you to mind, once again. No sense wishing to tranform the years back to where we used to be, but it brings such a warm flush to my cheeks to want it so. I just want to wake up there again. Wake up with your hand on my hip. Your mouth on my skin.

I guess I get carried away with the memory most times. All the time.

Wet summer grass. Makes me want to walk through front yards at dawn, just to get the feeling right.
I'll look for you in the weak light.
Love,
Gish.



I used to be such a grammar nazi, way back in the day. Now, I don't really care as long as my words get out there, regardless of which order they arrive in. Same deal for spelling.

I've been watching Durham County. I forgot how good Hugh Dillon was at portraying an angry man. Check out the link below for his new(er) project. I'll pick up the record when I get a chance. I love finding out I've missed the boat by a few months.
http://www.thehdrc.com/

Labels: Dear Chicago, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, love, True love, we all lose in the end, writing