That sound,
an intro that makes me sick to my stomach with nostalgia,
all those memories of those streets gone midnight,
in a perfect world.
Views from the windows of trains and coaches,
watching sunsets.
Watching my friends get high as I smoke cigarettes and drink red wine.
Building fantastic modern art statues out of living room furniture.
Dancing with our legs half way up the wall and laughing so hard.
Wandering around art galleries alone in cities miles from home.
Being an impromptu master of ceremonies at a stranger’s house party.
Crying and wondering “why doesn’t he like me?”
You cry and we tell each other secrets that we keep.
Watching cars burn in the street.
venturing around the park after leaving the bar.
Wilding laughing and wilder dancing moves chemistry to the pigs.
Motion sickness or nervous energy occupying early morning transit.
The sound of the clock ticking to an end,
drawing back the curtain,
a theatre of drunken smiles and music telling me my tales every time.