handfuls of air

Blurry night full of blurry faces,

except for the girl in the bruised dress

singing karaoke, voice satin

and siren-like, brushing

dark bangs away from her eyes

to enhance the spell she casts on him

across the room with her witchy gaze.

But some drunk blonde falls into a speaker

mid-song, then two frat boys throw punches,

and tired cops haul them away.

He sits and sips on his melancholy

until he is saturated, until

it seeps from his pores, until

he is alone

in the alleyway with the singer,

unzipping himself and lifting her dress.

They merge like desperate animals

against the grimy brick wall,

clawing, biting, something in her eyes

darker than dark, downpour,

so lost and tangled and final.

His last meal splashes on her feet, and she runs,

and he stumbles across the wet street,

and his palm presses against the warm grill

of a truck screeching to a halt.

The newspaper said he was liked by his peers.

No one ever really knew him.