We we’re different back then
Significant in our insignificance
In our corner street café’s
Our pretentious coffee drinks and bourbon scented lies
Stained the corners of our mouths like a stamp of misunderstood artistry

We spoke in lace trimmed metaphors
Under the illusion that mystery was meant to be kept as just that.
Mystery.
And the world still held secrets to be unlocked through nights of boxed wine and b-movies


But now it’s just another Sunday
No more intricately carved than any other
Number seven is sitting across from me writing poetry about his penis on a cocktail napkin
In an attempt to bring back a vulgar sense of intrigue
Like the path to my heart is cleared by pushing as many boundaries as he can get his hands on
I whisper “we’re too old for that now”

The path is too cluttered with experience and jaded truth
The sparks have been smoldered with the repetitive and mundane
And I can’t be lured in with mysteries I’ve already solved

Curiosity will only get you so far, after that you have to rely on charm,
And we both know where you stand in that department

I yawn, pull a Russian lucky strike out of my pack,
“Remember when we still had ambition?”
He chuckles a bit and goes back to his little stack of napkins


Even the walls have fallen lifeless
Like they haven’t had a worthwhile story to tell in decades
But its only been a few silent years
We’re too young to be so old
But I’ve heard you age quicker when standing still

What was it back then that made the mornings so much brighter?
Made the adjectives feel more vibrant
And the metaphors hold so many different meanings?


We were loyal back then
Star struck and free of consequence
We were larger than life on our small town stage
Wrapping up our secrets with little yellow bows and well embellished desire


But now its just any other day
In any other week of any other year
Number seven is flailing his arms about to get my attention
And I’m busy fantasizing about number never
With his artist hands caressing me like a canvas
Delicately washing over me like the strings on his guitar


And as long as we're alive there will always be something more right out of our reach
And we’ll keep disregarding what we have until we find it

But we’ll never find it.


Back then I didn’t know the stage was so large
With so many actors wandering about
We’ve crumbled from stars to extras
With fewer lines and plot twists

We’ve slipped into obscurity
Into the end of the credits
And no matter how hard we search
We’ll never find that spark again

So we write and we dream and we reminisce about the good old days
And we speak of the future with enough conviction to fool the greatest minds


But we’ll never admit its over