Being here sometimes feels like coming home, back to Los Angeles, as it was before the fires and the will to escape started to transform the images before me. The ocean changes color through the day from celeste to blue to deepest black and Henry never knew me in California.
We pretend like these aren't our last
hours together, he does it better than I. We walk in and out of a
hundred little vintage shops full of dusty clothes and forgotten
memories, he leads the way as if he's looking for something but doesn't
let me know. He grows impatient, digs dejectedly through the rubble and
I wish he would find what ever it is he's
looking for but I can't help him and he will go back to Paris alone.
There will be days when I'll regret it and nights when the solitude will
keep me awake and maybe eventually he will understand.