I used to consist of so many
different rhythms and harmonies.

But I wasn’t free,
I wasn’t me.

A drop kisses my cheek.
The rain, sharing whispers
of the way things used to be.

Now I am restless.
Mouth pursed against
another pair or another bottle,
I let my lips lead the way.

They give,
I take.
Too much liquor,
too little modesty.

Velvet summer skies,
skin sticky to the touch.
The air feels far too wild
for breathing.

This is the season
of second chances.

To be free,
to be me.