Terrace Nights
And you made me to sing to the music of the tranquil upon a mesa. It was but your presence that made me the Billy Joel of the night. For where can old Billy find an audience, as silent as the movement of the snail and as connecting as the two ends of a circle.
With our stargazing romance restricted by the clouds, we had quickly moved onto our palm’s world. We traveled to the future in them, frowning at lines not mapping to our desire, and looking for the missing ones. Some ran hand in hand with what we wanted to see and we floated in its dream-cloud for time we knew not...
Some songs fluttered around, like fireflies without a desire of direction. We picked a few and let them light our eyes through our heartstrings.
Now that the clouds are gone and our palms are covered with the sweat of the day, we have but one desire – to climb the thirteen floors, on a moonless night, to the water tank upon the terrace. The remnants of the songs we had sung reverberate as the music of the heartstrings that lives in the smallest fraction of our moments – in our heartbeat.
