We Happy Three

We drank red wine until our lips were plums
and our teeth were soft.
We moved like children and danced
like lazy lovers
until the streetlamps were our spotlights
and we were better than the band.
Williamsburg isn't all bad
so I made a pinky swear to the violinist
over his Malbec and through his eyeglasses.
This isn't a story with a beginning or an end.
We floated home and woke up friends;
left the violinist with the cellist
and grabbed a big yellow taxi right up to
our door.
It's better to leave things where they belong
and we belonged together. Singing and swaying;
fell asleep humming Bon Iver,
woke up to Devendra Banhart.
The death of us will be met with smiles
and holding arms or hands or sometimes faces
of violinists or friends.
We left the strangers in Brooklyn and
kept only our favorites together.
There's no beginning or end to this story
because it's the middle we find
ourselves in.