While standing on a balcony overlooking Seattle’s U-District, observing men loitering outside of a bar.
The sun sets in a city filled with original miscreants; strides unnecessarily long with hunched shoulders and bowed heads. Their blank faces reveal heads filled with rebellion. I stand on her balcony feeling like how I imagine God would feel on Judgement Day: powerful and, yet, unmistakably sad. The girl with the long, cotton maroon colored skirt hugging herself securely will have no problems making it through the pearly white gates. The man with a wavy, shoulder-length mane; however, will have to plead for mercy.
I can’t look down at the street any longer.
Seattle is like you said it would be. Stubbornly, I try not to look at this city with your eyes. It’s too west coast, you would say. It’s the epitome of everything I can’t stand about the west, you would say. I would reply with a snort and smirk that you wouldn’t be able to see and I would call you out on your east coast snobbery. I know I am a snob, you would say.
You’re right. You are a snob. You were a snob about our relationship. You were a snob about the distance that made our relationship not a relationship at all. You were a snob about the way I called you a dork only when I wanted to be cute and you knew that I wanted you to notice that I was being cute. You were a snob about the way that I wanted to keep you to myself; that I didn’t want to share you with the girl whose face reminded me of every girl you have looked at or will ever look at that was not and is not me.
Your name won’t disappear the way you did a month ago.