An art to being

On the coldest morning of my life
I left a club
And walked out to face the frost.
In the chill it was an empty earth;
My footsteps crackled,
I caught smowflakes in my hair
And far away someone coughed.
I raised my eyes.
In the whirr of cars all standing still,
She grabbed my hand
And gave me a glimpse of delerious burning blue;
Her perfect peacock eyes.
I had only a second to catch my breath before we stopped.
There is an art to being
she smiled,
We slid with our backs against the wall
And sat.
Minds fluttered with music,
Our words we littered with bass
Whispered trebble
And smoked a spliff.
The smoke crept between us
And in our lonely carpark dawn,
I knew she knew the art of being,
And stayed quiet.
She was all alone.
I watched her dance with fire-sticks
Between the cars
And broken bottles,
A slip,
A shadow.
I know it will be cold to walk home without her
And silence is the art of being.