Dear Los Angeles,
You my dear are unlike anyone I have ever known before. I know people say that all the time, but I’ve come and gone enough, that I feel confident in my truth. You strike this chord in me that I’ve often refused to play, a chord I swear no one else can tune, a chord I thought I’d silenced at a younger age. You make me feel like I can do anything, like I was born to be with you. But I know that even on our best days we don’t always love the way we should, the way we could. You bring out a darkness in me I never knew was there, or maybe I bring it out just to show you, and only you. You manage to be both everything I love and hate in this crazy world, you roll them into one and then sun kiss it at dusk. You are a phantom, a projection, a project that I will never finish. You harbor in the hollows and dark alleyways my triumphs and my mistakes, and only you know that they are often times the very same thing. Have I told you yet today how I love you? I love you in the mornings when sweat soaked salt air comes creeping up the hills and I love you in the afternoons drinking iced tea at sidewalk cafes, and I love you three whiskeys deep with the streets lit florescent. I love the way you smile and the way you never rain, and even more so I love when you are brave enough to rain. I love how you never apologize for you are and who you’ve been and how you never run out of things to say. Your crowded streets are nothing in comparison to what I’ve been through to get back to you. You feel like home, but no home I would have ever looked for, or wanted, or written about. You’re more than that and everything in-between. And if you’ll have me, I’d stay with you forever. My love for you is impartial, impractical, and imperfect. But I believe that is the very reason why I love you like I do.
xoxo, Rose Blacque