Nothing.

Sitting in rooms of poets on
a Monday night reminds me that I
am a low brow sit-com,
in danger of cancellation.

The booming echo of words
crystalizes in my ears. They tell me
of interludes;
how it feels to kiss a dying woman,
to stand on bridges and contemplate the fall,
to love so hard it bleeds.

After the open mic is closed,
they will go home and crash
into other bodies, nurse their habits,
and become so full they burst like overripe
tomatoes.

I will go home to switch on Gilmore Girls
and watch my breath dry over my teeth,
shared with nothing.

-adam