So many names,
Each for every place
She’d visited.

The same black hair.
The same black bike.
The same black shades.

Only her name
Mutated with the whims
Of her surroundings.

She’d almost been a wife,
She’d have sucked at it.
She’d been born too free.

She’d been a lover,
Several times over.
She was still alone.

A wild soul
With a golden heart,
A bit tarnished
By bad love.

Long roads, good whiskey
And warm nights,
Are themselves
A form of happiness.

Perhaps soon
A pair of golden eyes
Will finally look
Deep inside her own.

Perhaps soon
Red tender lips
Will whisper in her ear
Her true name.

Perhaps soon
Soft skin
Will gently snore
Against her own.

Perhaps soon
The eternal eve
Will finally break
Into dawn.