1. The Diner at the End of the World
Four years of black coffee refilled before I can ask,
buttered toast that never burns,
a jukebox playing only the songs I forgot I loved.
The waitress calls me "hon" like she’s known me forever,
and maybe she has.
2. A Room with an Open Window
Four years of sheets dried in the sun,
of wind chimes speaking in silver syllables,
of never needing to set an alarm.
The air smells like lilacs and rain,
and no one is waiting for me to be anywhere but here.
3. The Back of a Small Concert Hall
Four years of guitars buzzing in my bones,
of basslines mapping out the shape of my ribs.
Sweat and beer and bodies pressed too close,
but never in a way that feels wrong.
The music never ends, and neither do I.
4. A Highway at Dusk
Four years of taillights stretching into forever,
the sky bruised in all the right places.
The gas tank never hits empty,
the right song always plays at the right time,
and no one is expecting me home before dawn.