Night Session

In this room where
low-hung bulbs
and speaker thuds
shape the smoke

We sit and sip bottles,
my legs pulled
over yours in a
timid limb bridge

Your hand
rounds the dips
in my kneecap,
tracing down the bone,
calf held between
your thumb and fingers

Words tripping lightly
out over our limbs,
light chat to the others,
as if we did this every night
without thinking

My eyes held low
and fixed to my hand
where the cigarette glows
with each breath

Anna lives in Dublin, is in her fourth year studying English (literature), has had the odd thing published at home and abroad (Belleville Park Pages, Icarus, TCD Rant&Rave) and is PR officer for the Trinity Journal of Literary Translation (T-JoLT).