HollyWood

January 11, 2011
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Holly, I can see you, hiding behind concordant wisps of strawberry-blonde curls and Los Angeles smog. I can see you, even through the relentless Chicago snowstorms that keep me locked up in my own head, dreaming of summer sunshine and West-coast weather. I can see you, beckoning from the balcony of my hopes, too high for me to climb and reach, but just close enough for me to catch wind of a teasing laughter.


On lonely nights, I dress you up in flowered skirts and New York City: a sped-up romantic drama with the slightest Californian edge. You could be my own cinematic dream, wrapped in a Pacific breeze and tied together with cream-lace bows and the words from my pen.


Oh, I know you are a fantasy, scripted by some impossible disconnect in the wires of my brain, but it doesn't matter anymore.


Holly, I can see you. I'm coming…please wait for me.





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