The Night Before I Die

​I’m on the balcony of our small home. It’s nearly midnight, and the lights of Los Angeles are splayed out before me, serene and tense all at once; the gorgeous pulse of humanity lies there twinkling, grinding, dragged endlessly forward by the constant turning of the world. I have a tumbler of whiskey next to me, and I’m smoking a bowl of mid-shelf pot, while my gorgeous dogs laze across the outdoor rug, wound around my feet. Their soft snoring adds to the sound of my beloveds low chuckle as he reads from one of his books, a perpetual sight in our home. He looks up, sees me watching, and reads aloud three or four witty sentences, his rich voice melting into the perfect night. The air is warm and salty, like our love, like California.