The world gives up all but the smallest of blessings, the day down the way now, the dusk just settling in. The light that slips and plies, the music that blares and grumbles, the concert of glassware and urgency stumbling just below the watermark of breath. Quiet conversations and hales of laughter loosed. The whole world just the gleaming of the gutter. The whole world just waiting to begin.
She is the dream of the woman she should have been, the trap of passion and the tripping tongue. Staring into the blur of her own eyes reflected. Seeing through skin and bone, the blunt wishes of the flesh never sparing the washed out wanting of the soul. She watches her own eyes, seeing someone else. The bartender and the door that never opens. The next drink and the demon in the bag.
As if the night could disconnect from the long drag of daylight. As if tomorrow could detach from the tendons of tonight. The moment dozes beneath the seamless surface of each last drink. The moment drowns there, somewhere between breath and speech, somewhere between the eyes and the heart. All consolation prizes and cheap tricks, the day that you never wanted becomes the night that never was. Everything done once even the wishing is washed away.