byIlyse Weinstein
she never enters
but she's there
with that sway
those hips
that dress
cut off at just the right place
to be slightly wrong
balancing off heels
consecutively
in darkened corners
where there are thought to be none
to give you that stare
that's followed by that ache
that settles in its familiar place
comfortably unwanted
undeserving
and she stays
the last guest
leaning on tables
littered with glasses stained
with greasy prints
and fermented grapes
running painted fingers
along empty plates
until she gives you that wink
under thick plastic lashes
and turns to go
leaving the rusted red
of a lunar eclipse
in spots on the walls
where her shadow has been
