Mi Zona 8

That moment when a new drink arrives at the table,
a poke in conversation,
another nudge toward silly afternoon bliss,
undrunk glasses.
The bump in enthusiasm and forgetfulness, 
when the music subsides for a welcome intermission,
and the words from her mouth are clear and soft
and invigorate the cold night and the brown trees that scratch 
the window,
and you eat them.
You notice her neck and the shape of her ear,
and the black hair that slides over her eye,
and then the hopelessness. 
She'll be like a limp sparrow tomorrow, fallen 
in the grate of the sewer.
But you drink your drink and wonder why she's not
drinking hers
and that maybe it's because she's slipped into that perfect
sentimental bliss that friends scoff at during the 
the business of life,
bustling and teeming 
with frothing, toothy predators.
And you feel it too, a petrifying warm monster that 
curls up next to you, wanting to kill you. 
But you turn to embrace it again,
because you can't help it. 

--Anonymous

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