Number 5, from where the sound of bass reverberates.
I watched you at Peet's, long hair messy and gorgeous, as you hunted through your purse for crumbled bills.
On my home planet, you'd be worshipped as a goddess. Cities would erect statues to you and poets would compose sonnets about your eyes and elbows. Eventually, you'd be voted too perfect to exist and would be hunted down and killed.
Maybe that's why I moved here.
PS: I had the double-shot with soy milk and you smiled at me as if you were thinking only someone from outer space would order that. And you were right.
A Desperate Weekend Cry for Help!
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