On Bar Tops with a Wet Finger

Post-shoulder bliss, that sag with words

that miss, that drag, that mark as wide,

the mark is forever mine, on bar tops,

crisscrossed with stolen drinks and wet

rings, a drip of lost touches, like friends,

drawing invisible lines in wood, with

hearts overhead, broken, a lost hope, a

white sheet spread, a body drunk, a

body touched, by another, so well,

so who knows?

so he will write with fingers, alone.

 

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