This town, it is my memory.
Like it was then,
when we’d take turns as passengers,
closing our eyes
while others drove us
through these streets
we’d memorized,
just so we could guess where we were.
It was a game.
We were never wrong.

This town, it is a soundtrack,
the vibration of electric bass
and guitar.
a freedom
and a sorrow
woven together
inside of us,
in the air.

This town, it is the birth of my desire.
It is the grassy meadow
where I found my body.
It is the taste of their mouths,
of cigarettes
and stale beer.
It is a knowing
that never knew
how to be spoken.
That still doesn’t.

This town, it is my memory.
And my graveyard.
It is the quiet flow of recollection
others would sooner bury.
It is the body I will never touch again
and goodbyes that still hang heavy.
It is street names like headstones
and a longing never laid to rest.

This town, it is rapture.
A story of becoming.
A devotion still in search of expression.