I want to float home,
high heels in hand,
arm in arm with you,
you
and your hippy music I love,
you
and your quiet ways,
my lips on your cheek

(and my number there, above your heart,
scrawled in sharpie)

and us surrounded by bodies,
the pull of the music
deafening in that crowded basement

obscure lagers and a young ego,
temporary tattoos courtesy
of another drunken night

earlier--
in the parking lot,
voices called my name from the dark,
the sound rising over our heads and shoulders,
the feel of it in the hollow of my chest

belonging

I see and hear and feel
so much
Where does it all go?