San Francisco by Derek Pecolatto

You were pleading with me on the phone,
trying to sell me dreams of San Francisco.
I could practically smell the alcohol
through the receiver.
You were mumbling like a child,
arguing with me,
trying to challenge me.
“I’m sorry”
was the only defense I had.
You were getting sick of the apologies
and lord knows I was too.
I tried to think of a world
where I could abandon everything
and start all over.
Trying to imagine you and I
playing the part of
strangers in a strange land,
trying to make it on our own,
It could never be,
we both knew it.
You fell silent.
Your soft breath
almost drowned in static.
You finally broke down:
“I’m just tired of the rat-race;
the day to day absurdity.
God damn it, I want to live!
I want to dance!
I just want to feel… something!”
“Me too, darling. Me too.”