The Story Beyond a Song
Summertime Sadness drowning the senses
and you're not satisfied, you confided,
unclipping your headphones to glare
like a chauvinist at buildings as if they
had offended the neon dark.
"We are slaves of this Age!" you rasped,
raising a hand as if denouncing the gods
of music. A twinkle found its star
in your stare and I was simply contented
to feel the static of my hand attending yours.
A lone star winked - or was it a passing
lamp? I could not tell. Neither did I care
if this soft hardness was your shoulder
or my pillow; contented, to close my eyes
and feel the trundle of train between us
like a live animal vibrating our wrapped thighs.
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