Dear Reno real estate,
It seems like it was just yesterday. It was on a warm, sun-kissed day in July 2003; our hands, warmly clasped, our eyes wandering nowhere but at each other, my left and your right side arm intertwined; strolling at the park, and all I could think of was, "where were you this whole time?" Our two year love affair even Cary Grant would envy:
But something happened, something severe. It was inevitable; someday, someplace, something was bound to change. Earth was still a place where angels passed by for but a moment, and like greased lightning, you fell down straight to November:
I am not bitter my sweet, but hope seems to slowly grey as days has turned to weeks, weeks to thirty-two day months and months to 1,725 lonely evenings. There is a war back home, just so you know. Liquor and smoke-stain litter our walls of good times past. Workers are few, slots close-fisted and job applications as tall as our night lamp.
They say past work may never come back, fear doesn't take any slack, I suppose. They tell me to move on, find greener pastures, perhaps in the garden of golden orange. I respect their voice, but I try to tell them I'm here for the long haul, boat has been sunk. There is nowhere to go but fight to stay, here in the desert snow.
I await your arrival, excitement builds as I count by feet, are you close by, sweetiepie?
If you are almost there, one thing I ask, that you give a sign; a lilac scent or anything at all. Of this I'm not quite sure, it could very well be you knocking at the door:
|Office Address:||985 Damonte Ranch Pkwy. Ste.110|
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