Life of the Party

(Written on my 21st birthday)

his freshly clipped fingernails
brushed the purple veins of my wrist
as he reveled in his red wine
soliloquy
about Chekhov and the seagull
and they listened
like broken street lights
right after dusk
it was a sin

to watch her
focus her sparse attention
on the fly
indifferently
crawling on her polished dessert spoon
finding nothing
but clean

they didn't notice
our aberrations of now
his hand playing
with my cheap
metal wrist watch
and the sudden warmth
of our faces
the burning leaves
and the scent
of skin

as they drank
the remaining drops
of their irish coffee
we secretly fled like thieves
briefly danced in the garage
his breath finally close
enough to touch
and i asked him again
to tell me what is real
not caring
that he's a liar.