on the radio,
of this time last year,
of the rust and the algae beneath the
the smell of burnt sugar and
so you turned up the volume,
and spoke about her curly hair,
and how in the mornings you’d get there early
because you always knew she’d be there.
And then, no direction,
you said that we’d just drive but
you followed the signs for
and we arrived just in time
to walk along the waterside,
I wore the wrong shoes,
I don’t do much right.
She can be your Daisy,
I’ll be your green light.
I already really liked that song.
When I closed my eyes I already saw the rain and felt the cool air on the nape of my neck. It already took me to a place where I could smell the late night, late summer air and the way it filled my lungs and I knew that I’d be 23 forever because that song would always take me there.
We were in a hurry. We ran from the marquee.
The ground was muddy and the neon lights from the t-shirt vendors and pop-up bars were reflected in the tiny puddles that had collected in the grooves left behind by hundred’s of pairs of wellington boots. The Sunday morning was only minutes old and we were 23.
The crowd poured out of each side of the tent and we were about to squeeze our way through when I heard it begin.
And then I felt the rain. I felt the cool air on the nape of neck. I could smell the late night, late summer air and the way it filled my lungs. I looked at the both of you and we knew then that we would be 23 forever, because that song would always take us there.
I closed my eyes. I faced the sky. I sang along.
I was there.
I really like that song.