I want you. I want to walk your streets, avenues and feel your saltpeter, just barely, but definitely in my breath. I want to sleep on your floors, the floors of just-met strangers and pack books in a little backpack. Sleep next to it. I want to wake up to ramen and the noises of somebody's house. Someone I do not know, with whom I talk as though we have always wanted to know each other. Someone ten, fifteen, twenty years my senior. Someone kind.
I want to wear the same clothes as last night to the lecture in the morning. I want to end the days drowsy and tired and elated. Thrilled to be talking about the revolution in our notebooks, in our minds. I want to love your trees and trash. Your graffiti and your Ikea furniture.
Most of all Oakland, I don't want money to stand in our way. I don't want money to hold me back. I always have been last, if at all. What do I mean? I mean rice and beef flavoring for dinner. I mean $2.50 per internet article I write about dermal fillers. I mean: I should be with you! I'm belly up. Where are the hands? Who will give me one?
Okland, I am afraid I won't come to you. Our love is for the page and not the real world.
Broken hearted and yours until capitalism crumbles,