After 12 midnight you shouldn't expect that someone
would be available to listen to your miserable tales unless
you’re out in that hip pub engulfed in faint lights and smoke,
where everyone is friends with anyone who’s drunk enough
to take somebody else’s ******* that stinks worse than theirs.
It looks easy to watch these strangers if you’re just right there—
sober, thinking you’re too cool to foster your despair with
a glass of ***** or a bottle of cheap beer.
So you would just sit and have a cup of coffee
right from where you could get the best view of these lonely hearts
that tirelessly whisper and whimper to one another.

And then you would remember that a few months ago
you were one of them—because after 12 midnight
you know that you couldn't count on your best friend,
for she is out of town with her lover.
You couldn't call your colleague because you know how fast
your sad stories would travel from her desk to the boss’ desk.
And for obvious reasons, you know couldn't talk to your parents.
You have no one after 12 midnight except the people in your photo albums,
the actors and actresses in the magazines, and the authors in your bookshelves.
Your bedroom has enough space for your tales,
But you know it's too cold to keep you company until you heal.

And so you would find yourself in the hip pub engulfed in faint lights and smoke,
and you would become friends with someone who’s drunk enough
to take your *******. In the back of your mind, this person
who is so keen to listen to the drops of your tears,
and is so willing to watch the movement of your mouth
could be the lover you've been waiting for.

And yes, she is that person.

She is the reason why you were in that hip pub before 12 midnight.
Because after 12 midnight you would be out with her somewhere
where ***** and beer are for celebrations.
Somewhere where seduction is over
and the only stranger that exists is the word despair.