The Party of One

The Party of One

The orchestra plays a frantic gold,
The champagne bubbles, sharp and cold.
I measure the room with a glass in my hand,
A stranger adrift in a glitter-strewn land.
I remember the couch, the cushions, the hall,
When I was so small, and the world was so tall.
But here, beneath the electric glare,
With the scent of jazz and smoke in the air,
I whisper the words, a secret, a plea:
I am I. This is me.
I repeat it once, I repeat it twice,
Through the clink of glass and the melting ice.
The "Others" are sharing a love made of light,
While I am a ghost in the middle of the night.
The feeling is rising, a tide in my chest,
A bird in a cage that can’t find its rest.
I am I. This is me.
Until the room starts to fade and the faces blur,
And I’m back in the sheets where the memories were.
It’s overwhelming—the truth of the soul,
When the party is empty, and the music is cold