late night TV on your phone, infomercial after ad as you scroll your feeds,

martinis, with a twist, one, two, netherland vodka because it's so good and clean,

the undesirable waft of your neighbor's smoke, cigarettes, sometimes weed, but the evening breeze is so needed in november.

insomnia is a familiar thing, like sleeping in your ex's bed, or laying awake with all the things that clog your mind.

poetry is not a diary, but what if I don't have enough story for a film? what if all I want are distilled photos of people in solitude, in the night, or in some alleyway at least.

well, that's a lie. sometimes i want to see that intimacy, proof that love exists in the little moments, all imperfect, like lovers tangled in their sleep through a window.

i want to be in the room where those looks exchange. why watch movies when you can watch people talk? is this voyeurism? no, i don't want to see them fuck. i want to see their souls when they shed their skins, put these feels in a globe where i can shake the snow and relive these things that matter.

my boss once said that being a bartender was like being on a stage; you perform for your customers, and give them what they want, but I don't think that's entirely right. I think the bar is a room, and the room is the stage for everyone else; you're just nudging the party to where it really wants to be.