Solstice

I sit,
in the corner,
amid the cushions detailed,
with white cat hairs and,
faded tea stains,
in my hand I cling to a glass,
shining and red,
full of unnatural liquid,
that tickles my nose,
as I put it to my lips,
and sip,
I swirl the liquid in the glass,
making it glitter and sparkle,
in the dim room,
and the candle light,
with the smoke curling and,
swirling around the atmosphere,
dancing a waltz with the ghosts,
to the music only I can hear,
over the hum of sophisticated voices,
I can hear the music gradually rise,
pushing the murmurs to a higher tone,
it's beating-
and flowing-
and pulsing-
inside me,
my pulse,
is louder than the vibes and,
the waver in their voices,
as they don't know what to say,
I'm out of place here,
sitting among the instruments,
and the amps-
the stands-
the wires-
they don't know what to think,
as I finger the sticker above my breast,
that says I'm with the band,
I wish you could see me here,
I wish you could be here now,
but you aren't because I’d never,
let you see me here like this,
alone in a room full of strangers,
sitting with a look of disintrest,
but really I'm enjoying it,
but stil I'm miserable because,
I'm alone,
I long for you with a passion,
that knots my stomach and,
consumes my mind,
the kind of wanting that,
can only come from a desire,
for something lost long ago,
if only you could see me now,
in my ratty jeans and my faded dress,
I've aged and been worn,
I think of you more often now,
not like I used to,
you never really mattered much,
as far as I could see,
I never really knew you,
I guess you didn’t know me,
but it matters now,
because I need you,
and I'd like to think you need me,
I want conversation,
as I sit alone,
in the corner,
in a room full of
smoke and-
noise and-
thirty-somethings-
who like to pretend they can relate,
but all they really are,
is washed up hippy's who,
when the weekend comes and,
they work week ends,
they shed their suits and ties,
and lipstick and curling irons,
that mask how they really feel
and betray who they really are,
they light their cigarettes and sip wine,
and play music from places like,
Morocco and-
Iceland and-
Africa and-
they attend parties,
like this one that celebrate,
then end of a season,
a year-
an era-
a day-
they order Chinese or Thai or Indian,
and they graze the table with paper pates,
and talk about thing that really matter,
like the war of politics or-
the politics of economics or-
the economics of war-
and they glance at me,
sitting in the corner,
plastic cup in hand,
they falter when they can't relate,
so they don't try,
instead they glance at me,
with my sixteen-something hair,
and my boots with neon laces,
I wish you could see me now,
I wish you were here with me,
we could hold hands,
and talk about what really matters,
like life-
and love-
did I already say love?
because that's what it's really about,
and you could teach me,
how to see-
or hear-
or feel-
or any of those crucial things,
that nobody does the right way,
and the thirty-something would circle us,
and click their tongues,
and turn their backs ,
but that's ok,
we're not alone,
because you're here,
and I'm here,
who cares if they don't understand us,
with our delicate hands,
and our small breasts,
and our innocent eyes,
they never tried,
yet I am out of place here,
I wish you could see me now,
I wish you were here with me,
but you aren't,
cause I'm in reality and,
you can't exist here,
so I stay in my place,
and tap my fingers and bob my head,
in time to the pulse outside me,
to distract me from the pulse inside me,
my arms-
and my head-
and my heart-
it's in my veins and I can't avoid it,
so I sit,
in the corner,
amid the cushions detailed,
with white cat hairs and,
faded tea stains,
I am out of place here.


-Vinyl