Short Fiction Poetry 1 min
We're stuck in a party:
an enormous swirling of bodies,
of nauseating sounds
too loud in my ears.
The atmosphere's dizzying;
the ceiling's just above my head.
My lips try to find your name.
Black-tied in inexperience,
I'm spot-lit in the phosphorescent fake-smiles
creeping towards me from the glass giants
scattered around the discotheque.
Overwhelmed, I'm stuck in a freeze frame;
I need to hear the hum of your heart,
your familiar fingertips to unpause me into the moment.
Bring clarity like right after wake up:
first your silhouette, then you.
Hold me in your eyes.
Embrace my hollow-point grip.
Let's go get punch.