Amsterdam, You Beautiful Beast You don’t just welcome people. You test us. You hand us rain, Steal our bikes, Give us roommates who never wash their dishes. Yet somehow, we fall in love. With you, with life. You turn coffee into an art form, beer into therapy, and space cakes into full-blown philosophy. You feed us bitterballen at 2 a.m. and never judge. Brouwersgracht, Leidseplein, Jordaan in the morning— Wet cobblestones, yellow canal light, People yelling in 5 languages about nothing and everything. You’ve got founders pitching AI startups next to drunk tourists chasing pigeons. You’ve got DJs, lawyers, lunatics, Finance bro’s in Zuidas Creatives at Soho House Everyone thinks they belong. And they do. Mokum smells like weed and waffles, like summer rain and adventure. With your crooked skyline Heritage from hooks to cobblestones. Copenhagen is your pretty polite cousin. Berlin is your ugly sibling. I like them too. But you - you’re the one with paint under your nails and a smirk that says try me. People say they’ll just visit. They don’t. Because they live here. Fall in love with the madness. Promise they’ll only stay a year. Five years later, they’re still here renting the same overpriced flat and refusing to leave their postcode. You’re chaotic. You’re beautiful. You’ve ruined better cities for all of us. And we thank you for it.

I miss Copenhagen I miss rye bread and remoulade, the sting of raw onion on herring, I miss the harbor water. So clean, I can baptize my regrets in it. And snaps as cold as winter dips at Banchina. I miss the beautiful boredom of Kongens Have on a July afternoon, where time slows just enough to remember who we used to be. The beautiful LABFRESH store on Købmagergade neatly displayed hygge behind glass. From there we watch the peacocks of Fashion Week, cameras clicking, fits vibing, like it all means something. Enjoying overpriced cortados and BMOs on Jægersborggade, where baristas are pundits and everyone is creating and pretending not to care. You’re a classy girl, always have been. The kind that sips orange wine at Pompette, swipes left on bankers, but marries one anyway. You dance at Distortion but cry at 3 a.m. waiting for a slice at Porno Pizza You make Amager Beach feel like Miami and Reffen smells like ten cultures colliding on a paper plate. You’re the girl I still write, but never call. Copenhagen – you fit me like a LABFRESH shirt bought one size too big and styled with loose-fitting pants, worn just right but never quite mine.