His first words to me
asked if she and I were old high school friends.
“We just met.”

All we did was watch and listen.
There was small talk,
but at the first strum
he and I were gone.

I could see him from the corner of my eye,
across the table.
We were just
two bodies,
two drummers’ hearts,
moving rhythmically,
feeling the same thing.
Close, but never touching.
She pulled me away
so I could catch my breath.

I stayed at the back of the room,
above all of the shadows
and the purple lights.
I found him again after it all,
drawn back.
He smiled but his eyes
were just so lost.

He offered stories and questions
and a solo cup of Jameson,
promising something unspoken.
I stained the rim with lipstick
and apologised
but he drank from it anyway.
We drained it, together,
between the shuffling of feet,
the money of strangers,
and his hand on the small of my back.

He asked about my plans for the night
and I couldn’t find the words to say
that I couldn’t think past this moment
with him.
He was every future thought.

He left in a van,
crowded with people,
dragging behind a trailer of cases and guitars,
going somewhere far away.
I left on foot at midnight,
slipping on sidewalk ice,
with a dead phone battery
and a belly full of whiskey.
I fell asleep in my bed,
not knowing how I got there,
but feeling its emptiness
more viciously than usual.

I’ll see him again.