Westwood in the morning: every crack of dawn welcomed a new posse of red cups on crooked streets or your face glistening beside me. I tend to forget—Wonderful Westwood, at times too good to me, like calculated wind during a sail, otherwise quietly disguising my lows as hilly peaks. Hills we trudged in the morning Westwood. A climb that left my t-shirt clammy and my skin rosy by the time I reached Bunche building. Flowers next to my pathway. Flowers gently grazing my arm. A place, not a color, but a color that if I had to choose resembled the mulberries we shook off of trees in Armenia—a bright, budding plum. My Westwood: tactful, messy and trying. Sometimes so messy it hurt for days. Sometimes so trying that I lay in grass just to feel cushioned by dew. Different from the grass we kissed with me on top of you under the pink tree I snapped a photo of and shared with you. Love like time never stopped in Westwood but kept turning. Even once reached a windy rooftop. (Westwood on a ladder.) Westwood in the evening: breathing smoke in a stranger’s apartment and dancing, flipping cards and shouting. Facetiming you the city from our fourth floor balcony. Flowers at watch, taking stock. Taking for granted Westwood and its excitable touch. How you wore it like lace or pulled it over your head to shield your sight. Laughing with it; other times wishing to be picked up by it. Hanging on to Westwood like vines on a trellis. Taking it apart and rearranging the pieces to fit our needs. Selfless Westwood. We never could conquer its landscape or fatty streets. Streets we drove down until the rise of dawn, forgetting sleep, or perhaps losing all desire for it. Westwood at sunrise: moving in sync with our bodies, tucked underneath sheets. The sky, complete: a mix of lapis blue and orange streaks in the shape of flat streams. Quiet drives to Westwood, my eyes pondering the light. Far-reaching Westwood: its wings above me in protection, jettisoning all evil, and other times nowhere to be seen. 747 Westwood. Flowers nodding to greet the wind. Sometimes benign rubbing with the wind. Sometimes nothing at all Westwood. Or else the sound of you struggling with the lock before finally leaving; before that, stumbling up to my apartment drunk and fucking. Or else the sound of ambulance sirens filling the apartment, bouncing off the skyline and turning the walls fluorescent pink. Westwood: my gateway to love. Always too little or too much threatening my cup. Worse, always too close to taking a large swig all at once. Westwood-filled memories that still make me wonder. And yet Westwood full of languish and what-ifs. Where hearts span tirelessly. Where day comes before dawn. Day whole Westwood, never an end. A place to come to. At one point, home.