Limen

Noise
too constant to
notice the drop-off
in your laugh,

a compliment
turning its blade
sideways,

the pause
before I'd never
that means you might,

the low hum
of a room
agreeing with you
before I do.

At the bar
with the good light,

in the practiced dim
of amber glass,

your hand finds
the small of my back
with the ease
of something rehearsed.

I feel it then,

not fear exactly,

but the quiet
of something in me
moving toward the exit.

No one has said
anything wrong.

No one has moved.

Still,
the floor tilts
by a fraction,

and the music
seems suddenly
too loud to hide
what my body
has already heard:

the soft machinery
of becoming afraid,

the fizz gone flat
in my trusting eye.