Hand Loose On The Knob

The allure of the place is not the ethereal smokiness or the frames on the wall – monuments perhaps to better times.  But it lives in the smiles of strangers - smiles tinged with sadness and the loss of what may have been.  Still, the place exists as a gathering for lost souls and dreamers. 

The dim lights, the clatter of the glass on the counter. Everything is orchestrated. Each sound, each sigh a part of some greater function. It passes us by, in a blur, the time we spend in this place.  Distant times glistening with smeared makeup, washed away in the flood of life. 

It becomes home to us dreamers, writers, lost souls and rotting corpses - a compilation of us zombies, pale-faced and absent-minded. Yet, it is here where creativity flourishes – debates abound, love is found even if for a couple of hours.  Between cocktails and sudden stares, hope become something greater than hope.

We leave this place with a bit of sadness, the type that burns inside your brain, as we become aware that outside that door, hope dissipates into smoke. Love found becomes an illusion. And for a second we hesitate, the body stifling beneath the routine of the day to day. The hand loose on the knob, not as sure anymore. Everything compels you to turn around and contemplate and dream and flirt wildly between cocktails and sudden stares.