I don't have pretty words that bounce eloquently off each other,
nor rhythms that match heartbeats at unimaginable speeds,
I don't turn pain into art because when I hurt I lose my hands,
the same way I lose my head when I fall in love.
Nostalgia hit me like a bus.
I stood silent, aching in the middle of a diner,
remembering the days when I was 16 and came home to you in my bed,
and felt so lucky to spend every dollar I earned
on you.
And now I come back, 4 years later,
still unsure of what to spend my savings on,
still having not moved on too well,
I miss coming home.

Especially to you.