Scratch & Static

By Nix Carlson

I walk through fishbowl vertigo 

into a dim-lit dive. 

You’re losing billiards  

and twenties. 

Drunk. 

Disheveled. 

Coat collar torn, 

hair blown into a trend 

you aren’t setting. 

You see me 

and your face cracks blue, 

pull me tight for a hug. 

The space 

where shoulder kisses neck 

smells of vetiver 

and nicotine, 

enough to leave me 

riddled with cancer. 

Naturally, I inhale, 

let you burn my throat.

You introduce me, 

friend. 

I let the label settle.

Trace the edge of it

with my tongue.

I promised: 

if I ever saw you again, 

I would keep a pool stick between us. 

Drive off the road 

before driving back to yours. 

Melt my candle wax skin 

before you could run your fingers over it. 

But your hand squeezes my shoulder. 

And somehow

we feel inevitable.

Already 

my mind is tripping backwards 

into the room 

bending around us,

wondering, if your skin still tastes 

like ocean static and ache. 

You take the shot. 

The cue ball cracks. 

And for a second 

I think you’ll sink it.

By Nix Carlson