I dream of us at a party,
one past the point where the earnest
have timed their exits to perfection,
where the morbid hangers on
are too lost to move
or so lost they feel
these remaining fragments
may hold some as yet unseen treasure,
the pleasures they've drank all night to achieve.
Maybe two more sips to a kiss,
Making or passing out their only aim.
But now no longer their fault.
Strangers locked in the dregs
and the same song repeats and repeats
broken up by the staccato bleating
of non sequitur points
of even less purpose.
I ask you to leave, to take my hand.
You look back at it all
and then turn
to fix me with your eyes.
P Davidson 24/03/09