Poem I basically copped from William Gibson but Frak it

The pain stopped the instant he woke up.
It all seemed to run together but the details were all there. Every sight, sound, smell and sensation. He was 12 again. The summer in the south when the AC died and every window in the house was open for a breeze.
Pools, laughing, playing. He'd wake up to the smell of his mother cooking breakfast. His dad hammering in the new fence in the backyard.
He'd go to sleep exhausted from bike adventures around town and laughing. Bad movies in crappy theaters with good friends.

Then one morning he woke up and was back.
Not 10 anymore. At least double.

The doctor told him his eyes were new and so was his left arm. They'd tingle, but not to scratch. He'd been in the program for two weeks. All he could think about was eating. We don't have food here. The doctor said in thick Irish. Mean.

They kicked him out into the market with his things. Cold; just rained. June. Los Angeles. His memory hazy, the hustle and bustle of the hundreds of people packed tightly together going about the market felt so uninviting. He bought a $10 plate of shitty Chinese food. Finished it anyway.

All he could think about was getting away. He found a bus heading for the beach.
Threw away his phone in a public trash can as soon as he got there. Sunset.

The quaint bed and breakfast was made of smooth concrete. They took his cash and gave him a room with a balcony and stunning view.

He slept for days.

In the morning he ate breakfast at an almost empty patio cafe. Good coffee. That's where he saw her. Tan skin. A surfer probably. Curly sun bleached hair. Greek, he thought.

They walked the beach and talked about what they wanted to be as children. Soon she was in his room and before long the days started blending together again. They'd make love in the morning, the breeze coming through his balcony doors propped open. She'd sing to him, softly, sometimes at night. After lunch one afternoon he found a beautiful handmade guitar on the bed. A gift, She said. He couldn't tell if it was a question or not. It didn't really matter.

He'd strum chords and she'd run her fingers through his hair as he'd make songs for her.

I love you. She said.
He kissed her, looked her in the eyes and would whisper.
Thank you.