Oh West Coast.

I am missing you, pal.

Pursuit of the White Rock.

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I pursued you like a theme, a song, or a dream in which you would have beckoned me to come. To come in from a solace, a sad place, perhaps an innocence in which I would hide. However you, like a foreshadow, knocked on my bedroom window, awaking me from my sleep. You whispered a truth only you could share. Oh, BC, you deceived me into thinking I was for you and you were for me. It has hurt, but yet there is comfort in this rain I cannot stand. This wind blows in my hair to aware me of the sound and the discomfort that swallows me in, like a grave in the dark, or a hollow in the Sycamore. Is there healing for me, even here? Bare I stand, before a shoulder cold, begging and pleading, yet, in deep despair, I realize the redemption doesn’t lie in the words of the thought, but in the brokenness of my heart. I searched you Truth, like a white stone, White Rock, a simple symbol of my time away from near. I asked you white stone, a symbol of my stay here, for a washing and a cleansing of the bitterness to restoration. I am and I could be, but this stain of humility, bleeds forth like the very presence of your beautiful rain.