Spectator Sport

The party is loud and the beer is cheap,

and I’m standing where the shadows stay deep.

I watch your hand reach out for her face,

a quiet, familiar, and devastating grace.

You tuck a loose strand behind her ear,

the same way you did when I was the one near.

It’s a small motion, a habit of the bone,

and it makes me feel entirely alone.

I look down at the table, at the wet rings

left by the bottles and the weight of things.

The condensation is dripping like a slow tear

while I wait for the courage to disappear.