The Morning After
I could still feel the roar of the crowd beneath my feet, that claustrophobic chaos that comes with a concert. Two hundred vagabonds crammed into a splintery kitchen, swimming back & forth & back again like sailors on a sinking ship, crashing, flailing on the hardwood floor. The music blared & our bodies quivered as raw, rhythmic vibrations settled deep within our cells. Outside, the snow draped the sleepy streets, a far cry from the beer-soaked apartment, drenched in sweat & sex. Within the hour, the glistening mounds would fall victim to midnight stragglers, but for now, they sat, radiant, in the gleaming moonlight.
7am.
Church Street is a realm transformed. Footsteps mar the powder, reduced to slush by the rising sun. The sky is blue, bright, & beaming, but my thoughts are tied to hours past. A bass guitar resonates, reverberating through my bones. Cheers pierce my ears— I close my eyes and take it all in. Late night lyrics drift in the wind, whispering sweet nothings as I sip my morning coffee. My voice belonged to the night, a single note in a sea of thousands, screaming like Sirens to lure those sweaty, sultry boys off the stage and into our beds. The encore’s over, the standing ovation, passed, but the magic remains, vibrantly streaming through the Mardi Gras breeze— an echo I cannot shake.
