Sitting in a crescent booth, high,
can see the world from up here.
High ball growing taller, faces smiling incessantly
as we discuss if love is a fancy or a feeling,
something held or merely lost.
Sips and skips and smoke and mirrors.
The Dj chooses music that I wouldn't have
but it highlights the awkward topics that bind our night.
We switch books and write and write the small things,
too big to be spoken. People must have thought
we were mute. But writing makes things
heard that throats might never express.