MUSIC blasts from a second-hand stereo,
but you offer secrets in a whisper.
Our elbows touch under low lights.
The smoke from my cigarette forms a halo
over your head, but your words
tumble out fast. It’s un-angelic. The air
thickens as you speak of the long-legged
girl who calls you friend. You place a bottle
in front of me. I make a face. Bitterness
hits my tongue the moment you
call her names, recall her mistakes.
You laugh with glassy eyes and stare
at the bottles you’ve emptied. I realize
you are no different from her—
your hair escaping a dismantled ponytail.
The cigarette smoke stings my eyes.
I’m supposed to be walking away,
but I’m enjoying this.
Rose-An Jessica M. Dioquino
