At a bar near Grand Central Station, Free flowing alcohol and conversation. The steady sound of champagne glasses clinking, In celebration of new beginnings. Strangers drunkenly exchanging digits, With the hope of a quick backdoor exit.
Eyelids heavy on the I-30, You kissed my hand and told me you loved me. Not a soul on the road, just you, me and Biggie, Looking at the sunrise you said, “Isn’t she pretty?”