“I’m sorry I’ll have to pass.
But you girls should
go ahead and conquer the night,
like we always do.
I’ll be with you in spirit.”

            sending message…
…message sent.

I used to party harder
than any of them.
I was always the one
pushing rhythm
into the arms of intimacy.
Always the one wearing
the effervescent music
like a satin cape
and flying around the
maelstrom of bumpin’
and grindin’ bodies.
Always the one talking in
the language of the dark,
taking on the deeper,
less legible
side of the night.

I don’t anymore,
though my friends still do.
The difference between us
is I was a poet.
I was open.
I was looking for something.
Something whose name
I supposed wouldn’t fit
in dictionary pages
but might be read
between the lines of
slurred sentences
succumbing to the whip
held in Hennessy’s fist.
Something with a
rare kind of spark,
not unlike glare
on bling-bling
as it winks
at the disco ball.
Something that
skims the being between
waterproof Mac makeup
and sweat.
Something as
at home in the shadows
as the thoughtful soul.
Something more expensive
than money.
So I squandered money
and searched deliberately,
enough number of nights
to know for sure
that I would find it
if it were there.

No, I did not get old.
I still paint myself with
the do-or-die autumn
colors of expectation
to accentuate the edges
and match the skin tone
of my passions.
I’m still dancing as
intensely as you
well remember I could.
But not in the clubs.
Not in any particular
physical place.
Wearing different clothes.
To a softer moon and
a more forgiving beat.