In the photo, we’re sitting on the floor,
backs against a wall, others around us
in various stages of inebriation and clothing.
We stare at each other
with oddly intense nonchalance
that hovers in the frame.
I cannot recall one word that drifted between us
as the tide pulled us under,
drowning our evasive maneuvers in vodka and beer.
When did we first become us?
Here, I suspect, at this party
captured in a photo, we two,
saturated in one another—
ripe fruit found waiting
at the bottom of a glass.