The lost Lovers

Records slipping in and out of sleeves across fur rugs replacing boredom. Crescendo's to a bass lick older than us both while the rain fell on tin roofs above our heads. We lost ourselves in the rhythm vibrating our bones as we lay among the famous. Heartbreaks and triumphs alike deserved an audience yet the spoils go to us tonight. The smell of Dough Fir's whispering through doorways that yawn in and out of expressions stolen by every generation, and it keeps getting better. Our fingers touch on lyrics running towards salvation dreaming of the next best tribute lazily casting its inspiration. These giants leave clues to what keeps us close following a breakdown that spews forth a barrage of emotions unchecked. "Your hand in my hand", he sings to her eyes and I do and have for as long as I can remember hearing your voice.