The music is too loud, we complain. We are getting too old, we concede. The night is still young, we concur.
Moscato wine from the bottle, favourite place by the river, eleven our magic number.
High and giggly from all the alcohol, we stroll along the skyline of our city, humming softly. The urban fireflies dot the skies, stars in the background. Why did they say the city is not made for love? We are. And that's quite enough. We feel young and almighty, the weight of the skyscrapers light as feather. We make pacts for the future and get lost in the present moment. A lie is a cooperative act, but we speak only the truth. Your reputation precedes you, but I say love precedes us. And it'll be here a long time after we're gone.
Do you believe in absolute truths, I ask. Nothing about this moment is real. We live in our construction. We construct us. We create the world in our imagination.
Some time in history, light years ago, in a form different from what I am now, I imagined this moment.
Eleventh of the eleventh, eleventh of the eleventh of the eleventh.
(This word begins to look like an elephant. Maybe I'm a little drunk. Incoherent poetry for those who live in dreams. Postmodern. But I digress.)
11:11. 11/11/11. One and one, always a pair, never alone. Isn't that what everyone wishes for?
Happy 11th, my wish-came-true.
