In a smoky late night cafe, I wrote about love. I was full of the moon; I was full of romance. My head was spinning with a fabricated memory: feet kicking up dust in the midnight square. I wrote about the perfect arc her red dress traced as it swung around my knees. I wrote about her husky breath. But I avoided her eyes, her words, her. Because I was writing about the notion of romance, not the actual thing.
The freshly wiped steal tabletop glimmered sullenly in the intimate half light of wanting to keep the electricity bill cheap. The song of the outside was oddly muted, sequestered in the hearts of those nursing memories and drinks. In the dingy room, there was space enough for my pen to stroke the velvety texture of night.
I wrote about love. Love in its purest, unmarred by the reality of loving. Love fueled by coffee. A love of red dresses, husky breaths, velvety nights and smoky late night cafes. A Paris in early summer kind of love. The love ABBA would sing about. The sort of love that comes together with delightful serendipity, then falls apart with lementable innocent anguish. We danced in the village square, till I, the fool, broke my toe on the sidewalk.
The freshly wiped steal tabletop glimmered sullenly in the intimate half light of wanting to keep the electricity bill cheap. The song of the outside was oddly muted, sequestered in the hearts of those nursing memories and drinks. In the dingy room, there was space enough for my pen to stroke the velvety texture of night.
I wrote about love. Love in its purest, unmarred by the reality of loving. Love fueled by coffee. A love of red dresses, husky breaths, velvety nights and smoky late night cafes. A Paris in early summer kind of love. The love ABBA would sing about. The sort of love that comes together with delightful serendipity, then falls apart with lementable innocent anguish. We danced in the village square, till I, the fool, broke my toe on the sidewalk.
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