Remember that bar
where we went that first time-
in a backward street
facing the sunset.
Red door and windows, painted to look old-
a fresh lick though-
Remember the table at which we sat.
The candle burnt
and we thought we were so above it all-
the flame, the street, the part of town
we’d just discovered
in our post-picnic haze.
(It’s the sun! you said).
Above it all-
discoverers of a new world-
weary with new findings,
desperate for shock,
but eyes never wide enough
to notice the beauty.
We sat for hours
You mentioned something sweet and final
as if we could never go back,
as if that point was the pinnacle.
Nothing could impress you, could it?
I acted unruffled
but my heart was beating like a mouse’s
under my thick layers.
Each time you mentioned the possibility of—
The beer travelled through us in an amber river,
down spirals of tunnels,
When it was time to leave and we were alone again,
in the backwards street,
To my side you were there.
But I could not see your arm.
You had your hand tucked in your pocket
playing with loose change.