We were young and drunk and happy and the water in Amelia Island was cold but our hearts were full of fire. I want to be there today.
She wore a black leather jacket and an old gypsy woman told her she was going to have a daughter and her feet were bleeding from walking too much and Madrid was pure magic and museums and cockroaches at night. I want to be there today.
There was snow on the rooftops and poems written on the walls and folks who were packed with love milling around and the wind told me nothing really mattered that much. I want to be there today.
We gave the canoe a name and the ocean healed our wounds and the booze fueled our dreams and friendship was something tangible and the future was uncertain but far away and the immediacy of skin and sand made it less scary. I want to be there today.
Her minuscule apartment overlooked a gas station and there were cacti planted in an old, rusty grill and the beach was a few hundred feet away and tiny brown lizards were dancing on the walls and only music and new love mattered. I want to be there today.
The fridge was empty and the raindrops pummeling the window were a thousand tiny demons trying to get in and devour me and the live-in manager was screaming while high on pain meds and ignorance and lukewarm Jamaican beer and the heater was busted and it was 38 degrees inside but I had a few novels and a new obsession with Everett Ruess and my guitar and an old laptop and time in front of me. I want to be there today.
That park in West Palm Beach where we slept two nights while Willie struggled with dry contact lenses. That muddy river in Guánica where dark shapes crisscrossed underneath the kayak. That beach in Costa Rica where the rocks were covered with promises. That ledge in El Yunque that we used as an umbrella when the rain was the end of the world and we saw black snails the size of plates. That juke joint in East Austin where the ghosts turned into funk. I want to be there and there and there. I want to be there today.