a woman sits and drinks alone at her table tonight,
in remembrance of all loves past. in her darkness,
glimmers of chance dance across the room, for
these are things born apart from the bottle.
hope, that slow gasping fish of dreams, makes eyes at her,
and she raises her glass in a toast,
but the lights come down, and he swims away.
the future is a place for young lovers
with stardust whispers and moonbeam glances
she reminds herself, and pours another drink.
--bruised orange
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