I make a habit of frequenting the bar across the parking lot
in hopes of casually bumping into you

I rehearse in my head the way I'll avoid striking up conversation
leave my number tucked between bills in the host book on the table
stroll out the door, I promise myself I will not look back

My therapist says my unmedicated mania is dangerous
because I turn into disaster, the way I'm longing for your smile

Today's my birthday and I'm finally old enough to sit quietly alone with a glass of bourbon, the way my father does
I scratch my fingertips raw on the table longing for the clicking of graphite nails
But I cut them to the quick when I spent two days worrying about what you might think if you saw my hands