Static and Skin

The bar is a loud, humid mess of a room

where you’re telling that story again.

I’m watching the light through the amber and gloom

land right on the face of a friend.

There’s a stray bit of lash, a dark, curved line

clinging just under your eye.

Like a thread on a sleeve or a warning sign

of a life that is passing us by.

I want to reach out and brush it away,

but the table is wide and the air is too thick.

So I nod at the things you are trying to say,

while the clock on the wall gives a mechanical tick.