Age 21, Toronto

 It is loud and we are young
And the smoke of a hundred cigarettes
Shrouds us, casts a cloud just over our heads
That we mistake for immortality.

It’s Tuesday or perhaps Wednesday
And far enough away from the weekend
That we can’t possibly be mistaken for
Anything less than we have convinced ourselves
That we are.

We distinguish ourselves by our nonchalance
And our fashionable sneakers
Unable to face the sickening truth
That the night could exist without us.

Someone here will go home with me tonight
Though neither of us know it yet
But all it will take will be
A flick of a lighter, a catch of an eye
A fleeting acknowledgement of loneliness
Dismissed immediately and replaced by the
Conviction of desire.

We leave before the lights come on
Before we lose our bravado and attraction
Sweating foreheads
Messy hair, vision blurred
The heat of the dancefloor giving way to the
Cold of a staircase leading out.

And the DJ announces last call
While a song plays that hails the triumph
Of a slim waist and playful smile
And a future as yet to fear.

Laugh and grab the cigarette from his fingers,
Turn from that dark cave
With the last grasp of a melody in our ears.

We all watch them burn.


1 comment:

  1. Love this. Though I never could leave before last call.


Talk to me.