Half way up the hills
and eclectic group gather
at a narrow bar.
Leather jackets
occupy seats
by the door.
We sit
for a cigarette length of time
(cigarette length of time =
1 x 10 minutes
+ ≥ 10 minutes before
and/or after cigarette)
and walk
the dimly lit corridor
to the bar.
We sit
at a table for two
against a wall.
The band plays fiercely.
I've seen them before.
Their moxie
always brings
a rowdy crowd.
Behind them
apple crates
cling to the wall,
housing quirky decor.
Books, globes and vintage cameras.
A projector casts
lollipop swirls
and a singing silhouette.
Drink specials:
tequila mockingbird
I spoke to a Serbian girl I know.
She always wears glitter
and hazy eyes.
The more questions
I ask her
the longer I can listen
to her accent.
We spoke about the age old
nature vs nurture enigma,
and the life long impact
of a child's first six years.
She asked me
about my art.
It seems
that's all anyone
knows me for.
Outside, again, we sit.
For 5 x cigarette length of time.
Around me
people talk...
and talk.....
talk....
ta...
l...
k.
I'm sober.
Too damn sober.
My daydreams are broken
by a man.
He's bubbly and smiles a lot.
I like bubbly, smiley strangers.
We exchange stories
of our current lives.
He's a graphic designer,
and tells me
I should merge my art
and writing
into film,
and gifts me a flashlight.
I like quirky, bubbly, smiley strangers.
I'm left to retreat
back into my own thoughts.
It's less lonely in there.
I sort through memories,
recite lyrics,
observe the people around me
and watch them closely.
Their body language,
the way they bring
their glass to their mouth
and blow their smoke.
People interest me most
doing nothing in particular.
But I miss something,
and I can't quite pinpoint what.
I'm sober.
Too.
Damn.
Sober.