Mcdonald’s breakfasts at dawn, rucksacks splayed between weary legs, drawings etched across the tables against florescent light. Ruffled staff tripping over our frantic conversation, muttering ‘kids’ under their breath. Missing the point, always missing the point. Your imagination sparks with a truth, influence carrying to lost backstreet walls as we surge swirls in city corners, you stand close and let the sun fall out of the sky, we play safety by numbers.
You and me and all the world, in the time we have. Let them call us crooks, let them discount our worth. For this, a little piece of heaven in a day, is to be called our own.
As the bus chugged us back, you’d close your eyes, drifting against the rhythms of your easy come thoughts. I’d watch the passing traffic, I’d believe.
In dingy pubs where aged women lean out from the door, smoke drags and looked worn. In empty parks with an intoxicating mess of broken drunks bathed in escape, in midnight nature rustling through forlorn shadows of silent trees. In chip shops heaving ordinary people in ordinary lunch hours with ordinary values. In simple jokes and nothing being serious, in a grandmother’s wisdom in music to sing and not think, in all those big dreams hiding in little homes, in people being there for you because they want to be. In the grim towns people put down meaning something more than they would ever know. Of me just being one person in millions, and in you being another. In all of this coming all at once in a tiny moment of a tiny breakthrough where everything …feels…
And surely, isn’t that all we should need?