I MISS YOU CALIFORNIA

As the sun rises through the curtains, emitting parts of my face, I'm remembering those days I kept to myself in the morning on that front porch and waiting for the heat to burn my skin. To nourish the late night drinking with a large cup of iced coffee, a guitar, and a burning cigarette propped on the headstock. I'm in an orange shirt, cutoff pants, barefoot with a naked floor, a dirty couch and a full day of nothing.

These reflections do nothing for me, but they keep coming like they're bad movies you watch on TBS. And they play reruns like late night episodes of FRIENDS. It's impossible to stray away from these things because it's the things I have that keep me awake.

And the morning sun rises higher. I play whatever I play, smoke the last puff of the $5.99 pack, crush it and go inside the house. I watch the rest of my day play out through the window.