The
parlour empties after the third song.
You tell me
you need a cigarette and dump the accordion on my lap.
The fog seeps in as you
open the front door
and I worry because you’re wearing black.
I worry because you’ve never offered me a cigarette
or asked
to go for a walk at midnight.
The champagne sticks to my fingers
and I wished I’d grabbed your hand
and said
“I’ll go with you.”
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
The
parlour empties after the third song.
You tell me
you need a cigarette and dump the accordion on my lap.
The fog seeps in as you
open the front door
and I worry because you’re wearing black.
I worry because you’ve never offered me a cigarette
or asked
to go for a walk at midnight.
The champagne sticks to my fingers
and I wished I’d grabbed your hand
and said
“I’ll go with you.”
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