The Loneliness Of Company

A party lingers in the stillness of a room. Chairs moved, plates stacked, glasses stained in red lipstick of after dinner chatter. Cutlery criss-crossed, mosaic. For a moment, when front door fits frame, when lock links to latch, the breath of guests gone hovers in air still scented by perfume, by scotch; by hands shook, by the smoke of talk fading. A hangover of noise threatens. Looms like approaching thunder. Sharp shooting light lashes down in distance, counting… twenty Mississippi, then ten... five, then three, then - the bubble bursts. A silent shatter. Seats house ghosts and footsteps echo dust as though a party never happened here: the loneliness of company again.