I drove to Babylon
with the stomach of a murderer
called in for questioning:
hands unsteady,
directions hazy,
wrong turns up black streets.

I walked into the wrong house
calling out your name
to a group of teenage girls
in their PJs,
and blushed like a
girl with manners.

When I arrived
I surrendered control
by accepting your drink,
allowing your arms,
receiving your confession,
and so we danced.

I returned to the scene
once I reached the quiet sanctuary
of my bed
full of clear liquor and cloudy hope,
only to realize
that Babylon was gone
but it had not fallen alone.