Ana sat beside me
on a barstool.
Her calming presence
massaged my muscles.
The dim lights
and empty dancefloor
ushered in the concept
of contempt for solace.
I sipped water over rocks.
No more gin on ice to taste,
only cold water for me.
Maybe you’re right.
You don’t deserve me.
On that, we can agree.
But what you see,
who you fell in love
with was forged
on the rocky brink of a disaster.
Ana puffed on a menthol cancer stick.
I fended off disorganized stargaze,
casting doubt over missteps
on a thin tightrope.
I rearranged my dreams,
with wide eyes, to include us
until life fades, and God carries our spirit
to the other side of forever.