Read Receipts

The surface holds the warmth. I press my thumb to it. The light stays on. The light means nothing. I count the grain in the wood beneath the glass. Twelve lines. Thirteen. I lose my place. I start again. The hum is not the room. The hum is smaller. The hum belongs to me and to the thing I set face-down. Still here. Still here. Still here. Still— A glass of something I ordered an hour ago. The foam performed. Now it is honest residue. My hands are on the bar. My hands are in my lap. My hands are on the bar. The sequence is the news. Silence has a shape tonight. It is the exact shape of an answer that chose to become a wall. Still here. Still here. Still here. Still— I used to think quiet was the absence of a voice. Now I know quiet is a voice that read the room and picked the room over reply. The warmth beneath my thumb could be a heartbeat. I know it isn't. I check again. I check again. The condensation ring grows. I trace it with one nail. It does not close. Still here. Still here. Still— The light goes...