A night of high expectations and slick back hair.
A night of hopping trains from where home was, to here.
When I asked for a good time,
The night responded with *** fights,
Under the flicker of street lights.
Casting shadows of bare tree branches, leafless and old.
Defining what it means to be empty and cold.

The people at the station take photos of themselves,
With the person they've chose to love for the night.
Not knowing how to recollect,
A memory probably not worth remembering.

Everyone brushes shoulders with everyone else.
They lack an artistic view,
Yet they still try hard to paint themselves.