O, how I miss the nightclub!
Her neon sign flickers through the smog: “Chateau Chateau.”
Her sweet stench (garbage, sweat) swaddles me like a babe.
How I wish she would open her arms to me again,
lure me in with her weekend shrieks. The seething bodies!
I can imagine her now in mine eye:
O, how I miss the line!
So close together one practically suckles at thy neighbor’s teet,
knowing nothing of a cursed six-foot radius.
To think we once found annoyance in
an inebriated stranger spraying gossip,
lamenting how a certain “Chet” will never give due praise to their nude.
O, how I miss the door!
Do I have cash for the cover? Damn it all, no, do you?
Hark, what’s this I feel on my waist?
Yes, the gentle caress of the bouncer.
Sitting now, alone, I tremor at the thought of such intimacy.
A friend, if only for a moment.
O, how I miss the drinks!
Seventeen dollars before tip
for an elixir of mostly melted ice.
Shared with mine acquaintance roommate,
swapping sips, our lipsticks mingling on a shared straw.
We, invincible, have nothing to fear from the exchange of spittle!
O, how I miss the music!
Lo, the DJ spins an EDM rendition of “Jolene”
Clumsily cascading into… could it be?
“Crank That (Soulja Boy)”!
Ah, a dissonant medley which once may have irked me,
now only rosies mine cheeks.
O, how I miss the dancefloor!
The decor: vaguely tiki, somehow Parisian, yet overwhelmingly steampunk.
The chance to gyrate betwixt the groins of nameless suitors!
Until, behold! The crowd disperses, for the coveted
twenty-three second
burlesque show.
O, how I miss the bathroom!
Gliding in on a puddle of piss.
A maiden wretches in the next stall as I perch upon the commode
for two and twenty minutes, scrolling mine Twitter feed.
True, ‘tis the very same pastime I now tire of,
but with others nearby, it is bliss.
O, how I miss the Lyft ride home!
To share the same air with my chauffeur — such frivolity!
Sprawled out, caring not for my precious passenger rating
until the warmth of another body jostles me aside.
Three co-travelers arriving with a query:
“How long have you been driving tonight?” How riveting!
O, how I miss stumbling through mine door!
Famished, eagerly cobbling together a snack.
Stale Triscuits, shredded cheese, the microwave.
The same fare I stomach now, in endless isolation,
made all the more sweet
by the journey that led to it.