CoffeeHouse
It's quite different to see myself from this perspective. On this side of the window. It's hard even to remember that it did exist that night. Three years ago; a warm summer night unlike many others. The prelude to something not great, but true. Warm lights bounced off of us, made stars where I hadn't seen them before. I blame that now on the virgin Vodka shot, more on my face than in my mouth, which gave me that blessed internal warmth. The tingled, lingering, small pit in my stomach. That ball of friendship, that built upon itself with its own commraderie.
That night, I was extraordinary, and common. Freed form liberate beyond below between eachother. All laughing, smiling, and being young.
To see it now, to see it now. The coffeehouse goes on, and I see myself laughing, dancing, warmly glowing. And finding that commraderie with the Lady Vodka and the loud lipped liberation that follows in her wake. Mundanity where once the novel was discovered. Those friendships turned and parted.
Ways worn for a new crowd.
That night, I was extraordinary, and common. Freed form liberate beyond below between eachother. All laughing, smiling, and being young.
To see it now, to see it now. The coffeehouse goes on, and I see myself laughing, dancing, warmly glowing. And finding that commraderie with the Lady Vodka and the loud lipped liberation that follows in her wake. Mundanity where once the novel was discovered. Those friendships turned and parted.
Ways worn for a new crowd.