Everyone was talking about Montana, while the nicotine stained moon shed it’s light over the sad whiskey-drunk outside the dive bar,
Closing Time playing softly through broken glass and furtive glances.

The careless of me floated through conversations,
was pushed away by my own fluttering hips
and the sobriety of being somewhere unfamiliar.
The careful of me smiled at the smoke, reached and stumbled through
the point of no return.

Arms slung around hips, sleepy, disinterested laughter:
everyone slow-dancing their way home.
Me: drawing in the dirt between the curb and the road,
the asphalt sweetly jumping up to meet me.

Me: kissing the nearest kneecaps,
please be my Montana.