This is for Lali.

A black leather bomber jacket. I ain't no 70's punk, but that item of clothing has permeated my dreams for years. The worn-in leather, soft at the touch, streaks of white appearing where the black has faded. The black rubbed away by countless bodies leaning against rough-edged buildings in the middle of the night. My mouth waters at the thought of it. Countless trips have been made to second hand stores and underground lairs, eyes straining to catch sight of the tough holy grail. Hoping to experience the bright light of discovery and the sweet, sweet, oh so sweet feeling of unadulterated power. It has to be perfect. Has to fit right. To hang on the body with ease, not too tight, not too loose. Just with ease. Loose upon the shoulders, thin and subtle. The item that I could pack away in a cardboard box before it was worn to shreds and unpack decades later, bringing out the jacket and the forgotten memories of sordid nights and sordid people. Memories of driving in a car at night and hearing someone utter the words- "We're on Teenage Blvd., heading straight to nowhere." Coins jangling in the pockets, the pockets that were widened as years of hands were shoved inside. Defiantly. Justly. the zipper hanging on by a thread, rust tainting the edges. Sewing up the skin.