There were nights in many countries,
fifty different communities,
where the liquor tasted different
but the ending was always the same.
Broken soul.
Broken wallet.
Phone face down on the floor.
Mouth dry enough to crack.
Who did I fight last night?
Who did I fuck last night?
Who can I still look in the eye
when the sun shows up?
And was it bad enough this time
that I have to leave again,
pack light,
change numbers,
rename the disaster
a “fresh start”?
Ten different countries.
Fifty different communities.
New streets.
New faces who didn’t know
my old endings.
There were golden nights too.
Laughter that felt like belonging.
Arms across shoulders.
Stories told big and bold
like I was building a legend.
But morning never believed the legend.
Morning did inventory.
Empty wallet.
Missing memory.
Blood on my shirt
that I couldn’t explain.
Messages I was afraid to read.
I thought I was collecting stories.
Turns out
I was collecting exits.
The map kept changing.
The pattern didn’t.
And now I walk through those memories sober.
I don’t regret the past.
I don’t wish to shut the door on it.
I just stand there long enough
to admit the truth:
I wasn’t traveling.
I was running.
Those many countries,
those fifty communities,
they weren’t home.
They were rehearsals
for the day
I finally stayed.
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