Ever evolving gemstones, hand painted in black neon.
Strobe lit raindrops falling on the cobbled streets of night, while the trumpet player cries through his saddest song and the broken hearted girl in a fading red dress drinks wine as if it was water and thinks of the man she lost her heart to.
Somewhere music spills from a club, ever changing pop rythmns, house and electro and punk, fickle as the teenage butterflies that chant the words, defeated.
It’s a city where every sound is magnified a thousand times, as I stand on the wrought iron balcony, holding on to the railing, staring down at the drinkers below me, blue cigarette smoke curling between my fingers and up to the dirty roofs, the buildings pressed so close together here they form a box, a trap for those forced to walk the night like restless cats.
A band, two doors away from me and in the same building, rehearse the night’s set, somewhere behind and about half an hour in the future, the same future where once you lay waiting, the second thread to mine in this city of shouts and guitars and laughter.
The noise of so many people talking at once it seems like a droning of bees, with only one voice among them the one I want to hear, except that you and I are both alone by choice, even though it’s the last thing we want.
