The bartender knows her name,
Whiskey neat, no need to claim.
She dances on the edge of night,
Neon halo, candlelight.
He wipes the bar, pretends to care,
But sees the bruises that she wears.
Last call rings, she fades away—
A ghost in silk, too tired to stay.
He pours her silence, keeps her truth,
In every glass, a lost youth.
The jukebox sighs, the doorbell chimes,
She’ll be back tomorrow, same old times.