Your tux is the color
of a coal miner's face
after a long, hard day of work:
something you've never experienced

Yet you talk as though
you're just as worn out;
your trivial chit-chat
turning syrupy with every sip,
although your sentences
aren't getting any sweeter

And you grab another glass
of the effervescent liquid,
hoping the sea of black
will blend together,
and it will be dark enough
for you to fall asleep

And as you walk tipsily to the bathroom,
the overpaid opera singer
belts her last high note-a bit too high;
your crystal glass shatters
into a thousand pieces

And with it, you shatter too.

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