Bright stage lights,
adrenaline rush,
ear-splitting screams
for my little rocker—
not so little now.

I see her on the big screen,
but I remember
when she cried—
stinging fingertips,
frustrated fretboard fights—
couldn’t get the chords quite right.

Then she learned her first riff,
played it on repeat
seven days a week.

I watched you
take down the posters in your room,
pack your amp in a beat-up case.
I stood in the driveway,
watched the cab pull away—
rain streaming down the windows,
deep breath, hands shaking.
You didn’t look back—
and I hope you never do.
You had bigger places to be.

A buzz,
and a roar—
the first chord rings out,
wild screams echo,
and I’m just one in the crowd.
You don’t see me anymore, but
through all the noise,
I was your first fan.