To the Taiwanese dancer in Vegas:

I hope your laryngitis is better. Shouting over Nelly five nights a week can take its toll. I know this has been on your mind, so I want you to know that I meant it when I said I would have bought a dance from you. I was down to my last ten dollars, and that's just not enough. That'll barely get you a thimble shot of regret.

But I've learned to make that last.

There's a Leonard Cohen poem:

Marita
Please find me
I'm almost 30

The signal is never as strong as when it's the news of opportunities lost landing somewhere else. The aching glow from across the bay of what you drove away; what could have been, sometimes already planned or in motion. The fucking up of electric for-maybe-ever moments that could only have been more perfect if you had gotten out of the way.

Drink it down:

Thousands of hours staying this side of the line
Thousands of hours staying this side of the border
Never calling the number on the crumpled paper
All the money spent on prostitutes and food
Letting the song end without asking for a dance
Waiting to ask until a cigarette voice from behind says, "Come on, let's dance."
Being too polite to say, "No thanks," and walk across the floor
Wrecked road trips
Wrecked moments
Someone who wanted to be with me

I'm almost forty.