Olive

We used to laugh, during faraway conversations, about travelling commonly-named streets, if only to feel closer to one another. From my Olive to your Olive, my Ridge to your Ridge, as if traversing one road is all it takes to close distances.

But in the margins of my life, I watch San Francisco sunsets become shrouded by shadows of thick Summer fog, blanketing the sky in an endless gray. Often I wonder if it’s the same sunset you’re watching too, somewhere far, far down Olive or Ridge, Southern California dust painting the sky in hues of pink and orange, as the sun disappears beyond the horizon into the Pacific Ocean.

◄ Untitled (on the field)

Untitled (cold water) ►

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