fireworks sprinkled over 8:57 PM, sounding

as if the sky was a glass and the shots that rang

out were giant ice cubes falling into it, like

ice cubes the size of my head. I don’t know what

blind people dream about, but it might be of feelings instead,

the thunderous rush of a honey whiskey handshake

to your mouth. a kissing-so-much your stomach turns

to make things other than butterflies for once.

the feeling of a hot spliff between your fingertips, inhale in.

say hey, and motion to the door,

where the cupid’s playing matchmaker and the men in red cars

whistle at girls in black skirts. Where you wish you could join in

so badly it hurts, but you

are you and you’ll never belong in that room.