(I Don't Want to Be) The Last One to go Home

Edward Hopper - Summer Interior, 1909

Dance defiantly,
The slow waltz with 4 o'clock,
As the music fades,
And the lights fade up.

Vodka scented tears,

Stain your t-shirt with their black mascara tinge;

It's just another step in the dance,

As you sway on your high heels.

And you've screamed with delight

At the sound and the sight,

And you've hugged people you barely know,

(For want of any better words);

And you've hated people you've known too long,

And danced alone to your favourite song,

Four times in a row.

And Journey's been on,

For the fiftieth time that night,

Its personal touch muted

By the grasping claws of the naked mass,

Writhing beneath you, 

And swelling above you;

Like a blackened sea,

Carrying and pushing you along.

And the strobe lights flared like fiery beacons,

On the face of the deep that threatened to smother you,

Whilst the smoke machine spluttered like a retching hag,

When outside in the smoking area you smiled at your shoes,

As liquor stained sentiments

Gushed from between your parted lips.

But now the crowd has ebbed away,

And the barstaff are picking up

The broken shards of plastic cups,

And all you say is, "Just one more song";

But each last one is like a siren,

Pulling you back in.

And you don't want to be

The last one to go home,

But there's something more pressing,

In the way your reddened eyes hold mine,

As you waltz with the naked hour,

In that slow, melodic way,

That knows it's time to call it a night,

And catch a cab back to mine.

Where there's nothing on the television,

And words are like Easter eggs,

Sweet, surfeiting, and hollow.