lets fall in love for the night and forget in the morning
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It was easier to find poetry in empty beer bottles than in the lips of other girls. Easier to stomach, at the very least.
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There was something about parties that created some kind of weird, pocket universe. A different kind of atmosphere. An unspoken truce of what happens here, stays here.
Maybe that’s why Damien agreed to play. Or maybe it was the smiling boy with shaggy hair across from him. Or the sweating beer bottle in his own right hand. Or the rancid stench of weed stuck to his hoodie. Maybe a bit of all of it.
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