In my spring, Charlottesville, I came to you, seventeen, trapped in a story of potential.
You smiled, knowing my same story before spun with hands drawn to applaud.
Deaf, I thought none came.
In my summer, Charlottesville,I returned to you, thirty, free from the ivory cage of others’ expectations, still lost of my own accord.
As you smiled again, I smile and clap for you.
It was always you. Happy Birthday!