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In the Bar
The table became a drawing board
for carving their names into with
the cutlery. Her mouth was a
butterfly he kept trying to catch,
hands shaking as they exchanged scars,
hoping the rest of the world
wouldn't notice, poisoning themselves
until it started to make sense.
Night was painted on badly with too many layers
and neither one of them
will remember this in the morning.
Maybe she'll remember his hands,
and he'll fall in love with her mouth, but
the rest won't matter much;
just another poem he wished he didn't
have to write, and another table
with strangers' names carved into it.
