Glasses lean closer than people do.
Conversation fizzes, collapses, reforms—
like beer foam reciting philosophy.

No color, only tremor.
Ink wobbles into recognition:
faces as parentheses,
sentences half-drunk, half-remembered.

Hypothesis: laughter is the true punctuation.
Counter-hypothesis: silence is liquid too.

Bottles stand like exclamation marks—
thin, proud, slightly dizzy.
Hands orbit the center of maybe.

The table hums a secret toast:
to the art of unfinished evenings,
to the chorus of unsteady lines,
to the fragile grammar of together.