Afterparty Alibi

Confetti worries your shoelace.
Lipstick prints a crescent on your phone case.
You say the place wasn’t built for trouble,
then reel the line back in your mouth.

Strobe dust still clings to the black tee.
Two wristbands sleep on the nightstand—
yes, then yes.
New numbers ink the soft of your left hand;
the ride home sang a low refrain
you let the window take.

The DJ swerved the set—
the room went loud and lost its shape,
the floor kept asking for more.
Your timeline edits out nine minutes;

the story skips.

I sort the evidence without touching it:
a coil of wristband, a pocketed paper flame,
the phone face smudged to a thumbprint moon.
You lean the length of you into the doorframe,
sighting the jamb for plumb.
Between us the hallway with its long inhalation.

Say it plain, I almost say.
Instead, the pen cap clicks; the receipt curls.
You lift your hands, show the stamps, the ink,
what wasn’t taken and what was borrowed.
Your shoulders let go; under the sink light
the stamps blanch. Not spotless—still upright.

Dawn works the latch with one bright fingernail.
The lamp across the street resumes its hum.
We tilt the chipped tumbler to the bulb,
watch the hairline catch and silver, then clear.
The door answers softly behind you,
and the last glitter in your laces lets go.