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HollyWood
Holly, I can see you, hiding behind concordant wisps of strawberry-blonde curls and Los Angeles smog. I can see you, even through the relentless Chicago snowstorms that keep me locked up in my own head, dreaming of summer sunshine and West-coast weather. I can see you, beckoning from the balcony of my hopes, too high for me to climb and reach, but just close enough for me to catch wind of a teasing laughter.
On lonely nights, I dress you up in flowered skirts and New York City: a sped-up romantic drama with the slightest Californian edge. You could be my own cinematic dream, wrapped in a Pacific breeze and tied together with cream-lace bows and the words from my pen.
Oh, I know you are a fantasy, scripted by some impossible disconnect in the wires of my brain, but it doesn't matter anymore.
Holly, I can see you. I'm coming…please wait for me.
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The Hollywood/L.A. region would then be the strawberry-blonde dreamer, a manifestation of my hopes who strives to be as beautiful as her cousin [New York, of course], but falls short...yet has her own kinky beauty that proves nearly as captivating as that of her brother, San Franciso.
Who I am desperately and irrevocably in love with, still, despite the cruel, abusive control that Chicago tries to put on me. He needs to back off a bit, I think--he's just so cold, with constant mood swings, and although I care about him, my feelings could never be as deep or passionate as those I have for San Francisco...
Yes, I do personify cities. Yes, I do personify my own dreams into personifications of said cities.
Yes, I am in love with a freaking city.