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Home Bittersweet Home.

I left one of the newest happy hour spots Alibi around 8:45 with one of my bestest friends. Straight out of work and off of a new promotion he still looked like a little kid playing dress up. And there I was, in a red summer dress and nude wedges pretending to be a big girl ready for the world. It was still warm out according to city summer standards, and the air felt cool against my skin that burned from two Cosmos.

I looked towards my left to see New Montgomery St., and small packs of people bustling through the streets to get to dinner. It felt so San Francisco: having a last minute happy hour in a cutty ass lounge in the middle of an alley on a Tuesday night. It felt so familiar, so easy, so HOME. To think, I’d lose that feeling and feel like the new kid on the first day of school all over again in a city hundreds of miles away.

I feel like a bad girlfriend. One that just breaks up with her man after he’s supported her, been there through everything, and given her so much. But no relationships is perfect. As much as your golden gates have embraced me, your cold winters (and summers) have torn me down. And I’ve cried in your stairwells, almost as much as I’ve laughed in your sunrays.  Still, “It’s not you. IT’S ME”. 

So I’ll kiss your sunset one last time, and embrace your mist as it falls from my eyelashes until I’m on that plane. Long as you know that you will never be the one that got away. I may live in New York City, and I may even love New York City. But San Francisco will always be my home. 


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