Conrad Gamble

Writer | Director

Second Shot

The little coffee shop bell, tingles down my spine.

Door hinges disagree with one another,

Squawking like angry crows.

The bored barista thinks about his audition,

When will they be handing me a macchiato, he wonders.

A moustached accent with an idiot attached says nothing. Loudly.

And we sit and we sip.
On the same iridescent oil well.
That smells of the future, burning the past.
You look up, like you’ve never seen a cloud before.
This one is made of blue smoke.
The liquid darkness is on fire in our hands.
And we trip.
A velvet elbow nudges our cup off the edge.
Falling is such a rush.
Cracking in half on the wooden pampa beneath us.
We roll, like liberated hubcaps.
And come to rest.
Two porcelain smiles.
Covered in what we held between us.

I saw half that cup in my dreams.

Upside down and your frown felt like a dripping wet jumper that I couldn’t take off.

That you wanted to take off.

As the scent of sedition signals
To the catcalls of your conscience
I slip inside your pregnant mind
And think
I love what you’ve done with the place.

And it’s Friday, but it’s February
And it’s Sunny but it’s cold
And I miss you too.

It’s not that you had me at goodbye
Just when, because, well we know why.

We all want a handful
But not more than a handful
Wrapped around
That mended cup
Veined with redemption
A little less perfect, a little more wonderful
Because if you don’t risk it
What a risk you have taken.

As in the ends, I have the means
To dance the colour into your dreams.