It keeps happening.

It keeps happening.
Yes it does.
All over again, all over again
and all over again.
She walks into a room.
She owns the entire room,
the barkeep, the drunks, the moderns and the hip,
the expensive chianti, the caviar and the bottles of warm beer.

It keeps happening. It won't stop.
Juicebox playing on the Jukebox,
the dirty poems I'll never write,
that brief moment always taken by your little smile
and the borrowed books that remind me of my age.

It keeps happening.
Yes sir. It does.
It happens and I stand still next to my regrets,
next to the memory of pretty nights under the city lights,
lava hot slices of pizza and that last beer that tasted like river water.

It will keep happening. I guess.
Every single time I run for the hills,
every chance I get to listen to those songs,
every time I pass by that tiny room,
It will happen again and again.

Keep happening.
I don't mind it at all.
Or maybe I do.

Stay far away.