Sunday Shift

The side of the bar

where people sat, stood

empty and as vast as

an untouched painting in

some unknown gallery;

you, the artist of many lies,

waited for the crowd

to pour in,

longing for a moment alone

with your masterpiece. 

You hated talk of art,

although, as any artist,

you had an ego big enough 

to fill an empty room

with a thousand faceless smiles. 

People streamed in,

holding cameras as newborn babies

and kissing lovers as

they sipped their half-full drinks. 

The bar came to life,

your smile healed the hearts of those

who knew no different,

your hands felt the outline

of someone’s body,

you didn’t think of me,

you didn’t even come

up for air,

you forgot to breathe. 

The side of the bar

where people sat, crumbled 

as the crowd

pushed their way through,

just to get a glimpse,

just to feel complete,

just to lie a moment with you. 

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