Everyone was gathered around the microphone. We’d formed a semi-circle with people sitting or standing everywhere. On the floor, at the round tables, leaning against the walls, creating a thick endless field of wallflowers. The fire marshal would have a heart attack if he saw this.
I was sitting on the floor in the center. Legs crossed, resting on the heels of my hands. I idolized Reid. So, it only made sense that I should be in a position to see him the best, to look up at him. I wanted him to look down at me and see the awe in my face at every word he spoke.
He was a poet to rival Keats. But not everyone would understand his lyrical rhythm or his words. I would. They were always about us.
**From Color in the Dark. Get your copy here.**