That Night at The Dancing Bear

Are we fighting or dancing?
I’m trying to remember you,
and the view is still.

Either way, your eye gleams,
palms catch the light.

Never mind. That other time:
you’re wringing water from your hair,
ear cocked between splashes,
hearing something out past us.

Still couldn’t quit the city.

Sky is orange.
Your hair is drawn over
some sadness.
Sorry, but you’re still pretty.

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