“You know what.
“One step and I’ll hand you a mic,
“see if your voice holds up after a busted jaw.”
Then—BAM,
he and the band crash into the next song.
Andrew tosses a smirk into the crowd,
one hand pausing on the guitar,
the other hovering high over them.
“You give me your lungs on this one, I’ll give you the best fuckin’ four minutes of your life.”
Then the floor drops,
alive in their hands and voices.
Sweat, smoke,
everyone's hooked on the same high.
Bodies slam to the beat.
Lights flicker.
It’s a fever dream.
And he’s the center of it,
sweat dripping down his throat,
voice shredded.
They eat him up.
Every note, they drink it straight.
His name. His eyes. His mouth.
He’s giving it all away.
And they take it.
// 11:29 PM //
Andrew Harding moves as if this is who he’s always been. As if I was never supposed to keep him past the rooftop.
And now I’ve become one of the ghosts in the crowd,
watching him as if he’s mine,
mourning him as though he’s not.
I'm standing here,
