we are not yet dust, we are still
holding on, breathing carefully; the solar
lights in the club
flickeronoff, onoff. I thought you were beautiful once
and especially, as you smiled at me more
and more, you become like art.
Your eyes turned
from drained out blue to exotica; you went up in clouds
like ghosts do at midnight,
like ghosts do on the day of the dead: when skulls
bleed odd bright colors and people
sing and almost sing and then stop.
And now I sit here and remember and almost accept
it: this is how it felt to be alone,
after you were a chance. I can’t even
you in my palms, you drain out