Sun-faded

There's something about Southern California that
makes you feel as if you aren't missing anything.
But, I think that may be the problem,
that sometimes the palm trees and ocean breezes
function more as blindfolds than escapes.
In that case, ignorance is what it is, not bliss.

There are days when I wake up and the sun
leaks through my apartment window and I'm
not upset that it woke me up but instead I'm upset because
I want to be woken by the smell of rain on freshly mowed grass,
And watch the raindrops on the pane as they race each other,
Slipping down the condensated glass
and finally forming one puddle at the bottom.

Desert plants are hard, sharp, with pointy edges,
and deciduous plants are soft, fluffy and lush.
Sometimes I feel sun-faded here,
And my thirst can't be quenched by the saltwater
that is gorgeous but draining. Sometimes I want to taste
the water that falls from the sky and have an excuse to
wear rain-soaked clothes. Even though it's uncomfortable,
the relief of changing into fleece sweatpants after running
from the bus stop into my overpriced student housing
makes me feel something that I can't begin to really explain.

I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin-roof
in a warm apartment, with the window open only ever-so-slightly
so that I can feel the crisp air and bursts during the
moments when the breeze picks up. I'll close my eyes and
breathe and understand better the feeling of making a home.