corridors the air choked with yellowed smoke
and stale sweat flaking the paper from the
walls, arms reach up at me from the floor;
A hand or two grabs at my belt; clotted
red creams of their eyes rolling back,
craning to look up at me, but overshooting
the mark and ending instead in a dark bliss
in the backs of heads. I brush them aside and continue
on, heading in deeper; the hallways are thick
with people: a push of arms and hips, warm
mutters of stolen conversation, repeated
from one to another-pirated and parroted simply
for the sake of background noise. I should have drunk
tonight. The clammy press of social excess
is far too much without alcohol's gentle caress.
I decided not to drink, my own mistake;
I'd fulfilled that cliché too many days
running; but the salty air and toppled books
proved too much, my healthy gesture served
only to fracture; when we should have been fractured together,
coupled and whole, we were distant, apart, I even
felt a certain loathing for you as I sat
on the bed, my shoes still on, taking in
your awkward, elbowy recline and feeling vaguely
jealous of your tried and tested reckless abandon.
At home I conclude there's no such thing as sober
success at social events, always aim
to be a part of that writhing fallen furniture,
your upholstery pale and blotched, stained and torn,
but nonetheless at one, at peace: unified.
