I was staring.
Felt it in my bones,
this is where the real deals go down.
Belonging.
You come here to say things sideways.
Or to sit in your silence,
not to be home alone.
Someone hands me a cigarette.
Someone doesn’t look at me at all
even when I’m right in front of them.
Every man is carrying something.
A secret. A regret.
A knife that never got used.
No one’s here to fix it.
They’re just keeping it from leaking into their thoughts.
No one here goes to war with their pain.
You drink tea with it.
You keep your enemies close,
and your sorrow in a chair beside you.