In their hard chairs, the people are somber.
I sit, improbably, in one corner
Of a room draped in black, funereal
As the water in my glass of whiskey.
I notice melting curls that the ice makes.
My hand holds your essence more completely
Than the coffin on the dais ever could,
To say nothing of those with tears held in their beards.
Women accompany your retinue,
They place their hands upon a darkened suit
Attached to some man who dared to love you,
Though you loved none, as if to soothe that pain.
I have seen into the eyes of women.
I have seen true hurt, but these, these rejoice.
I drink until ice clashes with my teeth,
I permit myself to laugh at them all.
Your true friends? Such a farcical display!
Your dregs there? They only wish to be me;
They weep always from impossible desires.
Their companions? Tonight, honest women;
They will shed their dresses, sweating on your past,
Smiling because they think your heart made you alive.
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