I love San Francisco, and I probably always will. I fell in love with her because of her unparalleled beauty, splendid and unabashed, but I love her grime and her stink, too. She is a singular city, none others like her, with her houses painted in the prettiest of pastels and her watery sides lending a sheen to nearly every view.
In four days I'll leave her again. I'll pack up all my things and board a plane and my ticket will only take me one way, right to New York. I'm not leaving because I dislike San Francisco, but because I like a man very, very much.
She has her flaws, no doubt. There are many. But I will always love San Francisco for her mild climate and cozy green parks tucked into a gorgeous sprawling cityscape. I love how soft she can make you, fooling you into believing that humidity doesn't exist and whispering in your ear that you never really need to grow up, not if you don't want to. I love her freaks and her festivals and her food and how a cab ride can feel like a rollercoaster.
I only have four more days with this babe of a city. I'm going to miss her most of all in the snow. Or when the heat of a New York summer chafes my thighs. I'll grow harder and think back on her cool breezes and remember how a light jacket was all you'd ever need, any day of the year.
She's so lovely and light and fun. She's the fizzy peach-colored guava mimosa to New York's face-twisting Manhattan, and I'm going to miss her.