Saturday, May 8, 2010

At The End (Dead Flowers Practice)

So if I'm a creep I can't help it. Somtimes late at night after the booze has settled into your brain and you're sitting on the dead-green plastic benches, you can't help but stare at the copper lights drenching the night all the way to the city while you wait for a metallic box to arrive and slither down coast, getting you closer to the safe bubble of home and the hope of thinking quiet thoughts for a few hours before it all starts again.

Sometimes the air is just the right mix of the warm promise of summer and the cool blanket of fall. You can smell it/you can feel it.
And you don't want to stare at it alone anymore, you want some there to lean on, to grasp hands with, even to tell you that she doesn't see what the big deal about it all is.

You want it to be her, but right now it isn't. So you suck in that beautfiul New Jersey night-air cocktail, gaze out over the city and make up your own story as another train screams by.

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