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Hope She Were Here

Suitcase packed, decks wrapped, passport ink still fresh.
Pumpkin Park is rolling out – me on the wheels, Thomas on the strings, miles of hot asphalt between soundcheck and sunrise.

USA, we’re coming: neon nights, motel carpets, fast-food halos at 3AM.
I can already hear the crowds, feel the bass in my ribs, smell the spray paint calling from every back alley wall.

I hope the stages are loud enough to drown out the quiet.
I hope the lights are bright enough to blur that one face that keeps popping up when the crowd goes home.
I hope the camera catches every moment, so I don’t forget what we did out there… or what I left back here.

Between cities, it’ll be just me, the highway and a playlist on repeat – Run DMC, Linkin Park, Beastie Boys, the usual saints of restless kids.
Somewhere between verse and scratch there’s this soft little thought that refuses to shut up.

Hope she were here.
Or maybe it’s better she ain’t.

Either way, the tour bus leaves tonight.
Yo – see you on the road.