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 salt and ache.

You take the shot.
The cue ball cracks.

And for a second
I think you’ll sink it.

---

Nix Carlson (she/they) is a queer, polyamorous, and neurodivergent poet and sign language interpreter based in Lexington, KY. Their work appears in Low Hanging Fruit, Broken Stone Review, HNDL Magazine, the Eunoia Review, and Drip Lit Magazine, and is forthcoming in Coming Up Short Magazine and Page Gallery. You can find them on Instagram at @bynixec.