Puerto Rico it seemed was a city of old; the bricks, the buildings, even the beaches.
The ancient stone fort on the hill, stuck somewhere far back in time.
Even the flag on the tattered stick that marked our spot on the beach.
Even the potholed covered streets, even the sand looked a little sun burnt.
Old San Juan was a city full of cats, pythons, fireworks, and mojitos.
Graffiti, pineapples, mofongos, color.
Rainbows, pink houses, and waves touching graves.
Sushi, ceviche, cruises, and shells.
Champagne bottles in brown paper bags.
Little black dresses and old high heels.
Bikinis year round.
Sketchy allies, yet so hard to get high.
Puerto Rico was a whirlwind.
No ID required.
No excuse to leave. No thought of wanting to.
It must have been the cornrows that made me look intimidating or like I was letting go of it all so easily.
When in truth, a piece of me felt like I belonged there.
Tossed out in the waves, hiding somewhere in that pot of gold.
Waiting patiently to be crowned Queen of the Caribbean.
I will accept my reign any day now.