AND HOW

I'm sitting
Drinking, of course,
and thinking about the day we met
And how I fell in love with your black hair
and the way it reflected pert-near purple
as it draped your face
while you played your guitar.

Must be the vodka - no olive, please -
which makes me remember your hand
on my knee
as you asked me which brand I prefer
The look on your face
as I sang "Amazing Grace" -
Michael said he thought you had a crush -
not knowing
that this lush
was just in an angel's guise
for the night;
And how you looked at the floor, afraid to meet my eyes.

I trace too many circles
left by too many glasses
on the table in front of me
And think of how I brushed your hair from your face
when we played at that "Bohemian" place
And how I wanted to leave my hand there
have it become a part of that hair
And I got drunk that night
trying to fight the feeling
by sending some other drunk reeling
in the parking lot

And how this is not how it all was suppose to end.




Copyright 1999, Howl-at-the-Moon Words


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