The storm…

The storm



We painted pretty pictures into the sand and we danced on cloud nine on the mountain peaks. We got lost on highway 69 and we didn’t want to be found.



We tempted love and we loved the vodka and juice. We sang Elvis and Dean Martin till the dawn on the warm Spring days, on the Big Sur beach.



You were my Beatrice and I was your soul mate in the want of seeing everything and some more. I remember San Francisco. We watched the dangerous Pacific dance and you told me.



We are storms. Wild and free Johnnie. We had found virgin mountain peaks and we have danced with the Winter storms in late Winter. Now we own pretty pictures and kind memories. You will leave me and I will be just a passing memory one day. Love isn’t our blessings.



I sit alone at the Monterey bay 28 years ago. I tried to love a Winter storm and I remember her.



I tell the Pacific. I remember you, I need you now. I need to remember who I was.