#yaasuverse

one part butter,

two parts longing,

a pinch of salt

stolen from a wound

that scabbed over

years ago.      

2.7 grams—

the weight of a decision

I think of my life as a road.

I know — not the most original metaphor. But still, it fits. Maybe too well.

Some days, it’s American — a long stretch of highway, sun-blurred and humming. I imagine myself in the passenger seat, one leg tucked under the other, windows down, everything behind me burning just softly enough not to look back.

Other days, it’s Italian — a road that curves through Tuscan hills, golden and fragrant and full of half-remembered warmth. The kind of road you slow down on. The kind that makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you could stay a while.

Then it turns German — sharp, orderly, fast. A part of me that craved precision, progress, a route that made sense. I followed the rules there. I moved quickly, like that might save me.

But the Swiss roads were different — high, lonely, clean. The air so crisp it tasted like childhood. That’s where I paused. That’s where the world felt far enough away that I could almost hear my own breath again.

Some roads run by the sea — gentle, sighing, salt-wet. I remember the kind of peace that smells like seafoam and sunscreen.

Some roads go straight through water — flooded, unsure, shimmering with sky. You step anyway. You don't know why.

Some roads are made of sand. They shift underfoot. You lose the path. You find it again.