Swaying in a saccharine trance
of gin, of tonic, I crashed
upon Nolia’s pavement to

A bloodied forehead. One
denigrate glance, they walked
past me but the homeless man

Still shrieked to shrill, “Did you
dance?” I did not because I was 
no partaker of the Friday

Celebratory beer romance,
but he saw in me an intoxication
only he could understand, and I saw 
‍
In myself, a cerebral concoction
of a best friend passed—no notice,
no advance. She said she was 
‍
Not to fall into a pneumonic
transplant, she said she would jest
but never die, but I still 
‍
Felt the brutal brunt of her
failing heart, submitting ten letters
of grief, of a mitigating circumstance. 

‍
Published 5th November, 2024.