It's a strange feeling. I can't remember what you were wearing that night.
Leaning up against the railing, with the San Antonio skyline framing your neat, unfair figure; as though the city felt it was its duty to mitigate such disparity in beauty (what a communist). And the light nesting in your hair, like young gray foxes. I could no longer here the pulse of the bass, nor the blurt of the trumpet, nor the snickering of the piano keys. Not even the sardonic tremolo of my oldest friend, the trombone.
You were the coral, and I was looking in. Of another age: were you to believe in the grace of the night, filled with music I could no longer hear, in a setting now so distorted by the light drawn to you, that I couldn't help but acquiesce to the ******* of those little photons; for whom-else could have a clearer notion of perfection.