I’m sure I stood here before, in another life.
On this stage, back to the drums, these shoes on the hardwood floor, singing this song like it was all I was, all I had.
The drums keep the beat like my pulse.
I’m thinking of the room where this started.
Alone, broke, writing.
Sitting alone at the end of my bed, on the couch, on the floor.
The window open, the cold air drifting in, your perfume lingering.
To here.
To this moment.
Fighting the gravity,
fighting the grey in the spotlight.
Trying to prove, at least once, we are alive. Looking for a connection.
I close my eyes, the music lifts.
And I’m flying.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
