More Than I

It was an accidental graze, not engineered;
I hadn’t seen his face, nor he mine,
when arm met shoulder. He turned to speak
and seeing he was prepossessing,
more than I, I (faltering)
remembered that it always is a game. So I
played, spoke sumptuous words,
the sort you can only exchange
if you’ve lived and learned in places
with opulent names such as Blake and
Edina. I halved my attention
between what I said and how I said it
(which has mostly to do with a delicate
awareness of one's lips).
He bought for me a glass of wine
to see how I held something fragile.
I wished to tell him why I came here
(to watching buildings rise into air).
He didn't ask. I loudly laughed
at things I heard in half and together
we gestured wildly at what we ourselves
were apart of, picking who’d go home with whom
tonight. We spoke of three-tiered value
in translation innovation (business,
conflict, and intangibles)
and the plague of being a white girl
in the world at large. I left
with my numbers, all nine,
still mine, for I wanted our words
to hang overhead as he fucked
a girl more beautiful than I.