The Last Night

The neon beer sign swam in my glass,

red and blue bleeding through the amber glass.

Someone was talking, or maybe all of them,

the noise a single sound, a single hymn.

I'd stopped counting the drinks by then,

the bartender just kept pouring again

and again, without asking, without care,

my vision going soft in the air.

There was an arm around my shoulder,

I didn't turn to see who was bolder

than me, who could touch me like that,

hold me steady in the middle of chat.

The glass sweat on the bar,

the crowd a blur, near and far,

and I was happy in a way

that felt like drowning, like decay.

That was years ago now.

My friend texted about going out, and how

I said: I don't drink anymore.

Clean words. But I still taste that pour,

that particular blur, that arm,

the bartender's practiced charm,

the soft light, the held breath,

the happiness that tasted like death.