It’s ironic how a city that you grow up in can act as your destitute and other times your domain. Long rows of king palms trees reaching towards the heaven seem like ladders but can cage you in, reaching down to restrain you. Like a lover who at times can seem like your kryptonite. One day I will keep vases of roses within arms reach so that at the slightest glimpse of a argument you can reach for a dozen roses to throw and at the end there will be beds of rosé buds to make love on. Crushing the petals with our angry thighs, not noticing the thorns digging in with rushing adrenaline.


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