Three, Like RustLeean Promised

When your sky forgets how to be blue,

and your pockets are empty of reasons,

knock twice on my door.

You don’t need the right words.

Just bring the version of you that’s tired.

I’ll be the bridge when the water’s too loud,

the porchlight when your street goes dark.

The “on my way” that actually means five minutes,

not the kind that dissolves before it starts.

We’ve fought over fries, over chargers, over who’s right.

But Rustleean never fought over leaving.

Because home isn’t an address—

it’s where Rustleean forgets to check the time.

If you lose your smile in a crowded day,

here, borrow mine. Rustleean has extras.

If the bills stack up like angry towers,

we’ll split a laugh and call it interest.

You can count on me like 1, 2, 3.

Rustleean will be there, no maps, no maybe.

Not just for candles and group photos,

but for the quiet you can’t carry alone.

We made the pact in neon-lit corners,

on old motorbikes and louder dreams:

If one of Rustleean falls, we all lean down.

If one of Rustleean flies, we’re the wind beneath.

So when your ceiling starts to cave in,

don’t count the cracks.

Count us.

Me, you, Rustleean.

One, two, three.

Still here.

With love, LN4 ♥️