Here but not here. Here but elsewhere, too. My body, half my head in San Francisco, the other half somewhere else. Not where you live; no, you’re beautiful but I don’t picture walking the streets of your city. But if it came to that, sure, why not? Why wouldn’t I give it a shot? How many shots do we get, anyway? My mom died at 55. That’s not enough shots for me! I’ll always want more…and ain’t that the kicker? I want more rain-slicked streets and the smell of wet eucalyptus trees on my street. I want more notebooks filled with crap, with fumbling therapy-scrawlings springboarding me towards the land of the living. I want more evenings where the entire city outside my window is colored a pale blue. And nights like tonight, where the rain smudges the lights on the hills, the red pinpricks of tailights driving home, reflected in the wet asphalt. I want nights where I don’t sleep alone. I want more five-page e-mails and t-shirts soaked in sweat. Somewhere between here and there we meet; some ethereal territory where our dreamed-up arms and legs lock in WWF smack-down moves, and where our imaginary lips engage in heavy make-out sessions, when not telling goofy jokes to make the other laugh. Where I go when I read your words, where you go when you read mine.