Three gigs in one night, barely ten minutes each and you can hardly pay the bills. You zoom from seedy nightclubs to bars that reek of marijuana and you're loving every second of it. You're so high, flying above that neon city, zooming through heroin and rock music. And then one gig at Avenue D and thirteenth, some place with cracked mirrors on the walls and drug deals in the bathrooms and you see her. She's looking right up at you, dilated black eyes gleaming with alcohol and she smiles right at you, you just know. Her hair is messy, shoulder length and the dye is fading from it unevenly. But she's wearing a paint splattered tank top, and damn, you love her, starting then and stretching on into forever.
You and April, April and you, like some intoxicatingly beautiful cocktail laced with cocaine and adventure. You tumble around the city together but not alone, for she's mesmerizing the cab drivers and storekeepers and grumpy pedestrians. You kiss her and she laughs that raspy giggle. Nobody else could reach you two on that high pedestal that makes you king of New York, king of the whole fucking world.
Only she could reach you, touch you like that as if those sparkly painted nails could go through your chest and straight to your heart. Could you explain that to anyone, that unerringly wonderful sensation when she touched you?
You feverishly scribble out songs, each better than the last, because you try to match that musical laughter, those arpeggios of heroin that let you climb higher and higher. She listens to you play those songs, your scarred fingers darting quickly over beloved metal strings. April, this is for you...
You are glorious, rocking at those clubs where audiences adore you, as they should. Out of body, you watch yourself and love it, because finally you have defeated your demons, you have won. This you, he's confident and brilliant, glowing like the lights up in Midtown. April exudes light when she walks with you down those private midnight sidewalks.
And Mark and Benny, those bastards, they try to bring you down from that rainbow sky, they try to explain why you can't have your princess, your soaring music or those colourful nights in the alley. But they can't and won't know your joy and April's toothy smile, so you ignore their feeble efforts to control you. She is wild, thus so are you and together you are untameable.
High on the rush you reign, holding every second of it close to you. Together you ride on the waves of beauty that encircle dirty, pretty New York City. Amidst a cloud of needles and kisses and alcohol and love, you come to own yourselves fully. It's a fullness that cannot be explained until three in the morning, drums still pounding in your head and her pale arms around you, so to hell with the rest of the world, because you are in heaven.