don't ask me; i'm just a girl.

i don't spend nearly enough time in west philadelphia. and i don't know the name of the song, or the artist who sings it, or the words, or the beat, about coming out of that tunnel on the trolley into light and neighborhoods. but i think about it every time.

her apartment is lovely. it is above a barber shop, and the floors are hard wood, and she has good art made by her friends and herself. she pulls little bits of colour all over her living room, all over her bedroom. red from the floor to the wall. blue from the curtains to the jars. green from the plants to the candles to the book. and there are shops and houses and a church on her block. it is such a good place. and her dog is insane. he is a jack russel terrier, and i don't like him very much, even if he is named sebastian. he bites my hands and my sweater, and no arrow finds him.

she talks about art and art theorists and she says things in spanish and speaks of places i've never been, and for minutes at a time i just have no idea what she's talking about at all, and it's perfect.

i have all night behind my eyes. we mostly talked, and looked at photographs of columbia and miami and new york, and listened to her music, mexican rock bands and french hip hop and japanese instrumental things and old cuban popular music and operas i didn't know. and she touched me so softly, the way everyone always claims i touch them, at first, at least. and i thought what i always think, that this is so new, and gentle, and i barely even care, and i will never get close to this, and this will never hurt. her skin is so smooth and so different. girls are so soft and so expensive.