In another life, maybe I was born for the coastlines and cigarette smoke, for motel lights flickering at 2 a.m. and the kind of love that ruins you slowly. I carry nostalgia like perfume on my skin - sweet, dangerous, impossible to wash away. The city sings in soft sirens while I romanticize every wound like it was written into fate. I keep my heart dressed in velvet and gold, pretending I don't miss the things that already left me behind. Maybe that's the tragedy of being young and dreamy - loving too deeply, even when the world was never gentle with girls like me.