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I Was the Last One

I sat at the bar 
with blurred images 
of you and someone else, 
smoking cigarettes 
into a chilly winter air 
I could taste 
after each drink. 
I sketched a border 
and odd shapes 
on a cocktail napkin 
trying to think of something else. 
A clean counter 
and speechless jukebox 
said I was the last one. 
Before paying the tab 
I rubbed two fingers around 
the lip of a shot glass. 
I pretended I tucked a strand of hair 
behind the curve of your ear. 
I tried to hold it there.

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