Still I Cling

I can't find you at first. But then I see you in the back room. I want one of those Basque blueberry tarts. As I walk up to you, though, I know that's not going to happen anytime soon. It's more a sense than a smell, though they go hand in hand. You look up and pull the headphones off your head, the corner of your mouth slack with malice towards yourself. "Here," you say. I can see the composition book opened on the table, the already familiar scrawl breaking out of the ruled prison. I can hear the music getting closer. "Oh, mother, I can feel. . ." I love the song, only not now. "I've been listening to this for hours," you say, your messy red lips pursing loosely around the last vowel. It's going to be a long night.