He always goes first, player to my left,

And I've made sure to be in the right

The next follows suit and

The next after that smiles knowingly,

But passes me the turn.

I've noticed a fold in the corner of the leftmost card in his hand,

I've memorized this fold to belong to the two of spades

Which is no match for my heart

But an awareness is not an upperhand,

and i tend to offer my heart anyway.

I watch him flick the torn corner of his victory

And its all too familiar, the ubiquitous feeling that 

what comes next won’t matter.

A dangerous feeling for those whose hand consists of blanks beyond the indented golden ticket.

I seem to blink with each jab of motion, each tick of an omnipresent clock.

I haven’t learned when to spare your hearts for your diamonds

But he pretends to bury the dented spade within his hand,

so i accept the invitation to bid

now My heart floats amidst an otherwise empty table

And though a few rounds allow for a unanimous quiet,

I know its only a matter of time before his spade gets the best of me,

I know that I’ve already lost.