At night, I thought I was king,
basking in a neon crown
of an empty kingdom.
Music shaking the walls of the world.
Like I was a character in a Tom Waits song—
half smoke, half shadow,
half believing it would never end.
I forgot the music always ended.
Another quarter in the jukebox
to stretch the night.
The darkness made promises it couldn’t keep.
Or maybe I just put too much stock
in the noise.
High heels and skirts
drifting through the haze of it,
laughing like nothing ever dies.
Ice cubes floating in glass
like time wouldn’t eventually melt.
Everything softer, easier,
lies moving through the chatter
like smoke in a closet.
I wore the night like a tuxedo,
like it belonged to me forever,
my rusty armor.
But morning never asked permission.
It busted through the window
like it owned the room.
Not gentle. Not patient.
Just light spilling across my face,
indifferent, doing its job.
The spell gone like a beer bottle
busted over a bum’s head.
A half-empty glass of scotch
on the nightstand.
Stale smoke on the roof of my mouth.
The weight of last night
suddenly visible
in the mirror and the ashtray.
And the king of the night
wasn’t a king anymore.
Just a fool who bought into the game.
Just a man trying to remember
how silence works—
like a little snail
doused with salt.