evaporation.

You touch me, I hear the sound of mandolins.
And you kiss me. With your kiss my life begins.

Who is that addressed to? I'm still trying to figure it out.

3 am. The birds have flown away and left only people stumbling through the concrete and metal. A group of women with bunny ears crowds through the center of the square, laughing and singing. They are led by a blond woman in a white veil. Yells and laughter and then silence. That voice beside me fades.
Time passes. A return. The voice is loud again, standing, leaning on a railing that is connected to stairs which lead right to the heart of the square, where the women had once been. Innocence has been stripped away with the passing of time, there is no more hiding. Rushed, everything is running, sprinting laps around me. The people whoop and holler. My cares run away with them. The cigarette smoke clears. It will return.
But I will not. Not for years and years. Despite the tip toes and flashes of light and broken couches and brand name shoes.
St. Vincent Place is couched behind a maze of ten smaller streets. It's a mess of an alleyway, less of a street. I close the door outside #9 and see candles flicker. I hear voices laugh. I smell marijuana thick and sleepy. I leave one home to join another. It is an amicable parting as long as the voices and tastes and smells and colors and softness are erased.