ritual

i'm sitting in the ribcage of a dying party
listening to the labored breathing of
what's left of the warm hum of conversation.

disorderly regiments of empty beer cans
reflect the dim light of the room. a girl
is sitting alone in the corner, not far from

a slow-spreading lake of alcohol on the
hardwood floor. everything is slow dancing
and my limbs are a hot, liquid metal.

words exist, but stumble from my mouth
like regulars out of a bar, falling, rolling
and clinging to each other in the gutter.

floating in my chair, i know that i will never
talk to her, if she even exists. i'm contented
by my paralysis and the stillness in my head.

she is a ghost and she is beautiful
and she is impossibly far away.