We drink because we must
imbibe the nectar of attraction,
the silky syrup that moistens
the lips of every man and woman
seeking the closeness
of sweat-cemented shirts
a flooded inner thigh
uncertain kisses that never say
goodbye.
An old man sits on the dock, peddling his shiny lie to the fish below. I watch him from the rotting ship that sleeps in the green lagoon, where my friends make homes in the lost and forgotten. Here, grizzled men in hats gather to sell tall tales for free. The old man kicks off his boots at noon and a hums a song with lyrics that are as beautiful and chimeric as the colorful dancer turning silently before a throng he tells himself is there.
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