Last Call

Last Call

It’s getting late as my

eyes roll back into my

skull and my arms lay limp

across the bar top and I ask

you to play something melancholy

on the jukebox and you smile and

take my dollar and proceed to put

on “King of Wishful Thinking.”

You always were a silly bitch.

And as the song winds down and

the ugly lights creep up on us, I

look over to you and you stand

sloped like a gaunt marionette,

you haven eaten right in weeks,

and the bags under your eyes are

just reminders of how un-devout we

have been to our cathedral, our bed.

(I don’t pretend to be a prize either,

my chin is painted with spittle and my

hands shake as the room spins).

As you look back at me and try to

feign a slight smile and wink with

your good eye, I’m reminded of when

we met and how the butterflies use to

fly within me when I would touch your hand

or how my palms would palpate as I skimmed

the inners of your thigh. Everyone shuffles

toward the exit and I grab my coat and scarf

and wait, wait for you, my soulless body

just accumulating warmth.