Whoever The Bruise
A literary darling in her redheaded glory. She blew her nose in the pages of a book that she had no intention of ever reading. But without a pretty mind a pretty girl will never find a good love interest. She knew this and hung on tight to her supposedly smart boyfriend while pretending to enjoy the band playing because she thought he did. He pretended to enjoy the band playing because he thought she did. He was dumb and taking a college course in linguistics solely in order to talk himself into a girl's pants.
There is a good chance that a majority of people who have fell in love have fallen in love with strangers.
The musicians were detached and so was their music. No voices just electric amplification. A bruise of purple that made no one else sore but those from center stage.
Once or twice I noticed a happy disposition make an appearance in the unhappy drummer. Maybe it was the cadence that was keeping him alive. While we swayed our thighs and patted our palms and nodded our heads and closed our jaws.
And the lifeless poet. He found himself out of the ordinary. And unkempt and philosophical. He tapped his dress shoes with the bass and remained expressionless throughout all forms of expression. The hint of irony untamed his billowing hair and left his lips wanting to smile. The girl at his side was all too aware of his idiosyncrasies and kept herself at a distance but wanted him close. She wanted to fall in love (with a stranger). He wanted to fall in love (and write again).
Everyone was kind of thinking about love whether they realized it or not because the music was so goddamn lonely. Except me, I was thinking about us and them and we and whoever. Then there was this girl leaving the concert early whom no one could understand because she already understood everything. I knew why she was leaving, she didn't have the need to pretend. Without her it suddenly looked so empty. I leaned back in my seat and felt bruised. The music made sense.
There is a good chance that a majority of people who have fell in love have fallen in love with strangers.
The musicians were detached and so was their music. No voices just electric amplification. A bruise of purple that made no one else sore but those from center stage.
Once or twice I noticed a happy disposition make an appearance in the unhappy drummer. Maybe it was the cadence that was keeping him alive. While we swayed our thighs and patted our palms and nodded our heads and closed our jaws.
And the lifeless poet. He found himself out of the ordinary. And unkempt and philosophical. He tapped his dress shoes with the bass and remained expressionless throughout all forms of expression. The hint of irony untamed his billowing hair and left his lips wanting to smile. The girl at his side was all too aware of his idiosyncrasies and kept herself at a distance but wanted him close. She wanted to fall in love (with a stranger). He wanted to fall in love (and write again).
Everyone was kind of thinking about love whether they realized it or not because the music was so goddamn lonely. Except me, I was thinking about us and them and we and whoever. Then there was this girl leaving the concert early whom no one could understand because she already understood everything. I knew why she was leaving, she didn't have the need to pretend. Without her it suddenly looked so empty. I leaned back in my seat and felt bruised. The music made sense.