Cat Stevens is blaring out of a portable speaker on a wicker table on a balcony in Rome
It's late April chilly out and I'm in short shorts and day old dirt
The evening sky is darker with my lemoncello lenses
In front of me is a plastic cup brimming with cheap red wine and an ashtray piled high with cigarette ash
But nothing fills your lungs like travel
There's no more fear than feeling alone in this world
No language, no clear signs, no one to hold your hand
After climbing a rocky Roman hill with a stuffed suitcase burning my callused hand
With women who understand I'm not whole and sleep next to me anyway
Can't help but feel this was all supposed to happen
Meant to admire this view, the faces and the wine
7 countries later, it's never over
Experiences shine in my hand like a diamond being appraised upon reflection
How I learned to be free and empowered
and closer to myself as I go along
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