Static Party

The clinking glasses, a thousand tiny bells.

The laughter, a tide that pulls and swells.

I lean against the wall, a coat too heavy,

in a room that smells of cheap perfume

and something burnt.

Faces blur. Teeth flash. Hands move.

They talk about nothing, about everything.

And I am here.

Just a body, taking up space.

My own breath, loud in my ears.

I watch a woman with bright earrings

tilt her head back, open-mouthed, shouting

over the din, her joy a solid thing.

I wonder if she sees me, or if I’m just

part of the wallpaper.

The music pounds. My feet hurt.

My thoughts are small, sharp pebbles

in the roaring surf of all this noise.

I could leave. No one would notice.

No one would care.

And that's the quiet truth of it.