This Morning


I awoke from the most vivid dream;
such a lurid attraction was playing before me 
in a sickly fuscia glow,
a sleek array of bottles neatly stacked along the wall.
A shouting, shuffling, squeezing-pasting Friday night atop a barstool-
You, too, were cast in this haze of hot pink, 
and casting fleeting glances.
—Our possibility ignited—
a spark of connection,
the tangling of filament.
The music eerily, obnoxiously loud.
Your lips were moving but no words came out.


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