Like I loved coffee,
that's how I loved you.
Like the first cigarette of the day.
Or like a Beatles song
blasted on the radio
during a road trip
to nowhere in particular.
Like each slice of coffee cake,
cinnamon and pecans
delicately, deliciously curled
into every little streusel.
Like spring,
when the snow melts into water
and runs, rushes
past yellow-colored, polka-dotted rain boots
on a sun-soaked afternoon.
I loved you like I love you;
simply, completely,
without frills and without doubt.

I might be wasting my youth.
It didn't hit me until just now,
flipping through social media feeds.
I know it's false,
but it feels real.
The smiling faces,
the laughs, the loves.
They may not have it every second,
but they have it this second, right now.
And I don't.

I'll never be happier
than when I'm on the road.

A bit like Kerouac,
not trying to run away.
Just want to be free
like the river.
The mere thought makes me shiver.
Not knowing.
That's the rush.
Where will I sleep tonight?
Where will I go tomorrow?
It's anyone's guess,
and I like it that way.

I'm not running from you,
I'm running from me,
to a better version of myself.
You don't need to get it,
just accept it.

Wind in my hair,
smoke in my hand,
but no longer over my eyes.
These highs
don't go any higher.

Don't agonize over me,
just let me roam free.
It's where I'm meant to be,
can't you see?

I wish I knew what to say.
My feelings are like clay,
they bend every which way.
I spend nearly every **** day
just trying to be okay.

Maybe this is a cliche,
a girl who fights with her padre,
I keep going astray,
my issues I always downplay.

I wish I were a blue jay;
so I could just fly away.

Another, another.

These words bite and nip
at my heels.
You can't possibly know how this feels,
but you look at me
still with those disgraced eyes,
the likes of which
you don't even try to disguise.

You say it's all self-control,
as though that'll assuage my soul.
I worked my whole life to be good,
and it left me empty.

I'm an empty shell,
like Humpty Dumpty.
Someone cracked me open
and fried the yolk within.

So, when you ask me,
"Want another one?"

I'll say yes.

I never wanted to be young and stupid.
I longed for the respect of my elders,
and I achieved this through acting old,
even though my heart was young.

It's only now that I realize
being young and stupid
is a gift,
not a curse.
Being young and stupid
is permission to live
as wildly and as loudly
as you please.

So let's drink too much,
sing too loud,
and have too much fun

while we still can.

Goethe, he was an artist.
Schiller, Mozart, Beethoven.
Writers, musicians, painters all.
Even now I hear Chopin's call.
The tunes make my heart sing,
my soul dance.
I'm in a trance
when I hear those sweet melodies.
Like the sound of your voice,
it all makes joy
come rushing back to me.

Won't you stay,
play a little longer?
I may not be as gifted as you,
but I could be your muse,
if you were to choose
me to.