I remember well the California days the warmth melted into Russian snow that lasted winter long and hard, minutes to hours into days that lasted months.
I remember all too well the warmth of the sun that mimicked the steam radiator, both controlled by a force I can't explain
I watch as both fade into the same memory, the same memory in reverse but familiar this time in an unsettling way I slowly recall as the feeling that made me leave in the first place.
I write things down that are in my head and don't even remember thinking them, they feel like new ideas being explained to me by a stranger with a better sense of me than himself. I take note of these ideas and promise to forget them soon, maybe even faster, so I promise myself again to be sure it will be painless.
I don't even want to fall asleep because I
anticipate my dreams of days to come
and don't want to be disappointed by
the reality of my dreams being better than a
reality that I can control most of the time, or
So I think.
In these last bitter days I stay inside my head and don't let the words leave my lips, there are things I wish to say but can't form the words and feel it's a waste of time at this point to catch up on my Russian. I may as well just speak the words in English and have everyone rely on sentiment, body language is loud and clear because I know and see what people are thinking about my silence and that's alright.
A peek between the winter pines on snow covered ocean slopes will remember my visit here in this very spot and save a place for my return as the forest blooms for the first time as I depart.
"I will be back, and when I am I will be saying the same sappy shit about California"
