The Party Bo Burnham

Only after that drunken late-night congress
had disperse
and the music had stopped and the walls had caught
their breath
and the smug fog of dialogue had condensed on the
empty glasses,
only then did I notice how unhappy you were.

The strobe light had given me stale, unusable snapshots.
Even if I had seen some struggle on you, somewhere,
I would have mistook it for simple social rigmarole
as everyone’s behavior reeked of pеrformance.

And only after that night had given into thе next day,
and I had stood where you had danced so cautiously,
and I had imagined you sitting in that chair that still
bared my imprint,
only then did I realize why you felt that way.