Happiness stared
at me from across
the table with those
come-fuck-me eyes,
so I offered her more
wine. She summoned
me closer.
I brought bottle to
glass, closed my eyes,
and tried to trap her
lips in mine—
no one there.
My eyes opened to
nobody there.
She was gone—definitely
nothing there.
I finished
her glass,
my glass,
the bottle.
A hangover greeted me
the next morning, breath
stenched by vomit, sheets
soaked with bodily fluids.
I couldn’t wait to see her again.
1 comments:
happiness is a bitch and we're fickle J-holes. Once again this is some great stuff. I feel like one day this self-proclaimed "Prosy" that I knew became a poet that now continually writes way better, more relevant, wittier stuff than I do...dick.
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