[edit: Happy Birthday Blog – You’re 1 years young…]
The midnight cafe above candlelight. The conversation dances a cigarette in your hands, barely touched by the tips of your long long long olive fingers. Your eyes sparkle and your face animates. And you come back to the point you made twenty minutes ago in a totally new and unexpected way…and you laugh at yourself. The cigarette dances. And the smoke twines and oxbows a writhing arabesque until it dissolves, an ashy squirt of ink in a clear pond of air. Writhing a line from the smoke to her eyes to your bodies entwined… Octopus ink diffuses from lines incised (head down) by oblong stylus into the soft pulp of a Beefeater coaster’s blank reverse.
Slave to the grind
Losin’ my mind
Until I find
Love’s come back to me