"Breathless"
11:05, and as the wild guitar tears through us you suggest we should go. Unthinkable; there's a song yet and you, concert virgin, are enjoying yourself. I know you are. The bass pounds us into the music while the keyboard carries us up and away to 1969. Ghosts of classic rock giants in a world not ready to let go. We are this moment, and each tick of the clock rings rarer than diamond.
11:10 and the last notes ring away. The frontman addresses the baying crowd and can offer no more after two encores - the gig is over; time for light-blinded music-deafened revellers to emerge in the real world.
Nudging me, taking my arm, you tell me it's time to go. The clock screams louder than the band's new-found fans. The album's on sale now; I throw a tenner at the bassist and take my copy.
We push through the crowds - “excuse me, excuse me,” I say as I brush past tens of hot and sweaty bodies. Through heady clouds of vodka we burst into the cool July night.
11:15. Ten minutes to go and we run; bodies in flight over streets fresh-wet with rain, streets where nightclub lights spill neon-bright across the sodium-lit path. Darting around clubbers you grasp my hand and I'm free - you take my hand and the breath from my chest and I'm air - we're air, colliding. I feel your warmth like my own. My heart throbs with what could be and what is now. You, beautiful.
11:20 and already the night's drunken regulars have completed the nightly pilgrimage to catch the last bus home. All the breath out of me I'm gasping and the world spins in a dark blur of orange and black. You stop and hold me as I struggle for breath. “Are you alright? Do you need to rest?”
I shake my head and silence you with a kiss. In my head I'm still flying - fingers entwine and I could carry you away.
But 11:25 looms. Ahead of me silence, and a lonely ride home.
11:10 and the last notes ring away. The frontman addresses the baying crowd and can offer no more after two encores - the gig is over; time for light-blinded music-deafened revellers to emerge in the real world.
Nudging me, taking my arm, you tell me it's time to go. The clock screams louder than the band's new-found fans. The album's on sale now; I throw a tenner at the bassist and take my copy.
We push through the crowds - “excuse me, excuse me,” I say as I brush past tens of hot and sweaty bodies. Through heady clouds of vodka we burst into the cool July night.
11:15. Ten minutes to go and we run; bodies in flight over streets fresh-wet with rain, streets where nightclub lights spill neon-bright across the sodium-lit path. Darting around clubbers you grasp my hand and I'm free - you take my hand and the breath from my chest and I'm air - we're air, colliding. I feel your warmth like my own. My heart throbs with what could be and what is now. You, beautiful.
11:20 and already the night's drunken regulars have completed the nightly pilgrimage to catch the last bus home. All the breath out of me I'm gasping and the world spins in a dark blur of orange and black. You stop and hold me as I struggle for breath. “Are you alright? Do you need to rest?”
I shake my head and silence you with a kiss. In my head I'm still flying - fingers entwine and I could carry you away.
But 11:25 looms. Ahead of me silence, and a lonely ride home.