Almost As If

I was sitting on the edge of your black leather sofa.
You were over there, by the kitchen counter,
pouring us both another glass of red wine;
bitter, sweet, touching cloud number nine.

Then you remembered about the playlist,
recorded on a less vintage version of a vinyl,
perfect for musing over the silky sound of smooth sax
and our favourite sultry summer jazz tracks.

And we drank and we danced on the balcony,
slightly merged to the camouflaged city skyline,
like two fools under a voracious voodoo spell,
ignoring the redundant 'do not disturb' signs at the motel.

But then morning came, and you were gone,
almost as if you never existed at all,
almost as if you were over there
and I was over here, patiently
waiting for you
to silently
disappear.