Sometimes, I can distinctly hear Berlin calling me back.
First city I ever visited in Europe.
It was as different as it was magic –
Like trying on something new out of a storybook.
Reykjavik made me wait for it –
Having landed twice, years apart,
Before I could enter her fiery yet snowy, otherworldly terrain.
London was as cold and unwelcoming as rumored.
Only thing colder than her weather was
Her people.
‘Though, exploring the historical sites made the trek across the Atlantic worth it.
But no matter where I roam –
Back home to the rough, busy streets of Kingston,
or the fertile valley and surrounding mountains of western Massachusetts,
or down South to see the family in the Atlanta suburbs –
It’s the city that barely sleeps, the beautiful chaotic wasteland that is NYC, Thirteen years later, that still feels like home,
Yet, I wish I had the courage
to quit her.
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