This time last year

If you could list your favorite things,
and the worst
of what you're made of,
San Francisco,
and suicide
the certainty of perfection
and the death of the soul,
There was a day we spent driving to Big Sur together,
you spoke to me in French,
and told me I must visit Leon,
and we ate pomegranates at sunset,   
I remember kissing you in the shower
of that hostel
on Geary Street,
I snuck inside and found your room,
we spent the night together,
looking into each others eyes,
and I found solace,
I listened to the taxis and the madness outside our window, 
and I fell in love with that place,
with you pressed against me,
and how we drank champagne at breakfast,
they asked us to leave,
and we said, "Fuck you."   -  and we left. 
Laughing, arm in arm,
Watching the sailboats race,
watching the fog come sweeping through the harbor,
walking, silently through the city at sunset,
I remember camping beside the ocean with you,
we set up our tent in the dark,
but moon was enough light for us,
I remember,
standing side-by-side at the bluegrass festival,
I took off my shirt,  and you kicked off your boots, 
and we stood there in the midst of everyone,
together,
and you leaned against me,
and I felt everything in that moment - your anguish, and mine,
your hunger, and mine
your affection, and the sliver of life that was left
in me,  grow
stronger,
life is fragile, and intricate, and bewildering
I have never felt more alive,
than those few days,
death was so close,
and
at the same time,
life & liberty.  
This time last year




Andrew Tipton