Youngstown
The first time I fell in love was in this city
With a curly haired boy who didn’t know how to kiss me
And held my hand too tight.
My family’s roots have dug generations deep
With a love as gentle as the willow’s weeping
In the summer breeze.
My tongue will forever be tinted by the taste
Of homemade red and the black factory waste
That spills into the sky.
My mind will always paint home in a certain light-
The bittersweet shade of an indigo night
Just before it falls.
This is the first place I have ever left
And the only place that has yet to leave me.