A lone pilgrimage of a self proclaimed wanderer,
A step forward from wanderlust,
A habit of running away while telling yourself.
"You're running towards something."
Searching,
Exploring,
Marking your foot prints
On the sandy shore on the left
of Costa Rica.
Before the waves took them.
Leaving a cocktail, named after you,
in a speakeasy under Ginza.
And fooling every patron to order it,
only to find it too strong to swallow.
An immature bite mark on the neck
of a freshman girl in Scotland,
who majored in communication,
but dropped out because she found it dull.
I supposed I'll too.
Eventually.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoetryA small collection of poems which I write when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
