ghost towns

There is music. And noise.
Laughter. Stop.
Flash a smile.
Fall.silent. Speak up.
Crash. Arise, awake. Curl into a foetal position.
Think of mother.her love.amniotic fluid when life was about floating in safe spaces.

Your name.they keep calling you by your name.
And your impulse is to turn around to see who they are talking to. 
You have trained yourself to not make it obvious. And They never really figure 
what takes you that minute to respond.
How have you not warmed up to it.
It has been years. And yet you cringe.
And revaluate friendships that involve addressing you by that name
Asking you what you would like for dinner.
Sitting under Warm yellow bulbs.unsuited to edm.and conversation.and company.
Warm yellow bulbs.muffled in an order imposed.
Let there be light.and may darkness lunge at it.and emerge the victor.
For once. The underdog may never win. In fancy places with mirrors.
Where reading off menus makes up for things you cannot put a finger on. Coldplay cannot fix this.
Language and mosaic walls and reflections of apologies sought and given and the fragility of titanium 
and ice princesses and butterflies and wheels and children of the gods and..
grammar nazis (the only acceptable kinds in certain circles) will tell you about 'run on lines'. 
As if life can be short and crisp like they want from this sentence.
or.perhaps if only. Who is to say.
it is time to settle the bill. Pay up. Your share.
(Meanwhile outside the window,
Marks & Spencer says - "Life. Spend it well.")
And the last of us will step out of this ghost town with its glistening yellow lights and empty tables.
There is music and noise. Laughter.
Stop.