If there is no word for being
both reassured and lonely,
there is this—
San Francisco is all old cars
and big windows. At night,
we drive up Grizzly Peak
to see the city from above
and every hillside house
has curtains open.
A woman washes plates
in a green kitchen.
A boy in the top bunk
throws a striped blanket
over himself; an unseen hand
flicks the light.
I think I could spend
the rest of my life on this hill,
speeding down in the dark
past lives that aren’t mine.
Cassandra de Alba
A personal dictionary
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