Kate’s Apartment in the West Village. Freckles of her life dotting every bit of wall, photographs of her mother and sister outlined by Edison bulb string lights controlled by a dimmer switch hidden behind the bed pillows. Scarves and hats hung from brass pipes. Notes, tickets, mementos, gentle reminders, to-do lists, autographs and artifacts of inside jokes. A sunlit room that overlooks a courtyard where the neighbors sit, where I drunkenly devour pizza that I bought near the bodega around the corner for a dollar a slice. In her kitchen, an altar of bound texts. Poetry books, stacks of fiction, cook books, journals, course readers, self-help guides and city maps. Her guitar hangs on the wall over the bed and plays differently from mine, a pure sound, somewhat untarnished, newish strings still full of that out of the box timbre. In the middle of the night or early in the morning when the sun hits through the sides of the blackout curtains, I wake up from a dream where her and I are riding in the backseat of an old Cadillac that our friend chauffeurs us around in. He’s a stranger to me and she’s just strange but there’s an understanding in dreams like we’d known everything all the time all along. I am in love with a woman’s life and how comfortable she has made it for her to live in her world. She is rarely home to begin with and not once at all while I am there. The last time I saw her we were inebriated on my kitchen floor in Los Angeles, roasting sliced oiled and salted basil tomatoes. The two of us sprawled out late in the night writing songs, spilling our mugs laughing into each other’s auras, connecting the threads that would bind our souls together in a bliss colored haze. In her second floor studio I channeled her inspiration into my own and know that inspiration follows her as she hikes and climbs and travels by bike across her world which she articulates so wonderfully in her poetic way.

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