why am i always on the precipice?
smoke billows from cigarettes dangling off poolside recliners, wafting through the stagnant air,
invoking ghosts of antique women in vintage Givenchy. he bakes underneath the Crema sunshine.
until the rays seem to seep deep into his skin.
enough.
he rolls over himself, becoming a water-drop into an aqua bucket, seeking shelter from the sun’s ferocity below the pool water.
the sun relents, sinks to sleep bitter and defeated, under starless covers.
champagne glasses lay littered on the veranda nearby.
women’s laughter hangs in the night air— warps, rings, repeats…
and all that’s left of the day’s festivities are stubborn multicolor blurs on their tongues.
the nighttime is electric when it’s imbibed.
why am i always just on the precipice?