Linda's, 1 a.m.
When I tried to lift the last notes
of you
from the clink and clamor
of your relentless background music,
I knew that this time
there was no sense in shouting.
Across the wires bottles chattered
loudly to one another on crowded tabletops,
darts buried themselves
in scarred walls and broken furniture,
the bullseye still pristine.
And somewhere on your shoulder,
curling...
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