Tom Celestial

tragic sunscapes descend to the beat of a drum

a later sits aglow and we do not question

i am foggy as

behold the craft of magnificence

Tom is grooving celestial bullshit again. You’re watching people talk to each other about nothing. Loudness dominate the space as if it lives here. Now he’s nodding his fucking head. Like, acting like he can’t control his own neck muscles.

He mutters something to you and you smile back at him pretending you understood. You wonder if it’d have been better to have not responded. No, you decide, that would have made you an asshole. Your drink is near empty. You grip it in your teeth and applaud the soloist.

As you wander to the bar, you sashay step past someone and smile, a legitimate smile, because that’s why you came out tonight. You’re still smiling as you order your next drink. They are glancing in your direction. You continue to smile.

Tom is still grooving, like, out of control.