by Enna Horn

I sit at the bar. Three drinks in.
Rum & Coke — Coke & rum — rum.
static blasts through the speakers,
construction noise. That morning, when
I watched you rise, I watched the sun.
You poured three drinks:
water — orange juice — coffee.
Drilling on the roof, static blasting.
I asked through the noise if you could
drink all that, handle all that, sit there
with all that — you laughed, you said,
it makes me feel full, like you were empty.
Shadows linger at the edge of the bar, at the
edge of the laughter, lingering shadows.
The body, the first haunting place; now,
you’re haunting my place. Three drinks:
coffee — burns my tongue, fills my mouth,
orange juice — static blast in my gut,
water — clear as the sunrise in the window.
I can’t drink all this —
I watched your back when you left, when you
tossed a hard bar of words at me, like gold like
rum & Coke — I’ll see you later, but your
later came at the edge of a hole with your
name scrawled on it — the hole is full, I am
empty, struck by your departure.

Enna Horn is an author and polyglot currently living in midwestern America. They have work to be published in Typeslash, Ayaskala, Brave Voices, Paper Milk, Alternate Route, and others. If they aren’t lurking at their desk working on their next project, they can be found haunting the woods outside. Sometimes, they can be observed on their Twitter @inkhallowed.

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