Wrong Party

That's it. I've finally come to realize that I've always been at the wrong party. Always. I stumble into the wrong door, and I'm the uninvited guest, the ex everyone's talking about, the illegal alien whose papers are lost, or confiscated, or are questionable to begin with. I share the table wtih people who I think are friends, but they turn out to be strangers. One wrong move, one wrong name, and I'm embarrassed. I've made a mistake bringing my wife with me in a ball gown to a beach party. And it's all my fault for forgetting to check the invitation. What am I to do? The sand is getting into her shoes. The sun shines brightest on a spot on my arm. I find my place at the edge of the city, at the door of happiness, where I can see, where I can see the rest of the world congealing into a shape I have no name for. I wish you well. I find myself wanting to hold your hand.