The Negative Space

The bass vibrates through the floorboards

until my teeth feel loose in my jaw.

I’ve been standing by this pillar so long

the varnish is getting warm against my palm.

Three girls in the corner lean in close,

a bright huddle of teeth and iPhone screens.

One of them steps back to frame the light,

and I flatten my spine against the wood

so I don't bleed into their Tuesday night.

My gin and tonic has gone quiet.

The ice is a small, rounded ghost

bobbing in a glass of warm lime juice.

Twelve people have brushed my shoulder

and not one has looked at my face.