Standing Room Only

Saturday nights are filled with standing room only’s and awkward cocktail shuffling. You arrive late to be denied a cushy view of soul jazz serenades and chromosome-shaking harmonies that immediately erase the ego conflict you may just have had with the doorman, who could really care less that your bra size gets you in free at the Roadhouse. 


As your feet find their space amid the black and the ivory of cross-legged luxury, it glides through your fingertips and grips the last breath of your pulse, renewing each blood cell as if its vibrations were your oxygen. Your entire body beats in cadence with the unassuming bass line, once the synchronicity of strings softly withdraws its intoxicating caress. Your lips don’t even feel the vodka as it marries the vermouth and loses itself inside of you. Bridges arch themselves in your somatic fluidity and flick their licks upon your tongue.

Kissing never felt this good.

You let yourself fall in love with your eyes closed, waiting to weaken with every undulation. And in that moment, you realise that Saturday nights are better left to standing room only’s.