Some things are simple, though. So why try to explain the way these nights breathe, or the need for patience, or the feeling of numbers being written on our wrists. Instead, let’s lose ourselves on the roof awhile and talk some shit with the city kids. Let’s loosen up and get there late wearing our sadness casual and smooth like the people in the movies do. Let’s get classic, if we can. And when we’re asked who we are let’s remember that tonight the sun is out there starting over with someone new, and the moon is drunk, and we can be anyone we want to be.
So let’s have at it and dance. Not for the grandstands or hatchbacks or scrapbooks in the attic but for here, now. For this room and these hands and this skin. For this truth and these plans and this gin. For the grace to forgive, and to admit that these days we can’t remember what we mean when we talk about love. Other than our hearts soaking in punch-drunk drums somewhere in brooklyn. And our heads at peace.
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