sunsets are synonymous with strawberry fields and a citrus aura:
the nostalgic flavor of driving to nowhere.
the endless, relentless desire for more, calling us.
we dance until we can't feel our feet, and then we dance some more.

we are at the heart of it all: the nonsense and synergy
feel like omnipotence is mistaken for culture.
we are Gods of graffiti, painted warriors, afraid of the sun
setting before our journey is over.
we radiate ambition like we are the source of vitality
keeping the streetlights glowing.
we light candles, wishing for every moment to last
a bit longer.

this is not a home, it is a temple,
where each traffic light is a prayer:
a reminder to slow down. look at every view.
the poppies deserve more admiration.
perpetually loitering
because we can't see clearly in the hustle.
we try to find refuge far away enough
where we can pull the green earth
over us
for warmth,
and we pretend to know the constellations.
this is our movie,
my pen scribbling prose to paper.
i pause. i stick my head
through the sunroof and i scream, shaking with adrenaline—
an unwritten rite of passage, secret to no one.

i found my soul sisters living across the street
from my childhood home, and we
called it destiny.
my first friendships and kisses blossomed in the
historical rose garden on Nursery Street,
which is why i consider it sacred.
Charlie Chaplin's movies were filmed
in downtown Niles, and we marched
those streets daily to elementary school,
embedding our dreams down the sidewalk—bonded
not just by proximity,
but by the carvings, we decided we would love each other
until the credit scene.

our names listed one after the other.
we thrifted our outfits, wearing the stories of Bay Area folks
as if our skin was not enough,
searching for the perfect pieces
in the mess, hoping for potential.
there was no rush.
we took BART to adventure, staring out the windows
as if we were looking for an answer,
claiming the Golden Gate City made the world our oyster.
we documented everything,
but nothing could capture
what it felt like
when the fog
dissipated.

clarity across the Bay,
heavy layers disrobed,
and music playing on The Embarcadero —i wonder
how time is exponentially faster here,
though i am still.
i am amidst the spirit
that beats life into the ground: my heart
ascending to the heavens.
the waves crash against each other,
and i am reminded
that everything in the Bay
is breathing.

we all hum a familiar song.
it sounds serene
throughout the chaos.
it echoes, and i can finally rest.
i hold onto this feeling tightly—the souvenir of an average Bay Area romantic.