I don’t like to think 
about anything this close,
focus poems on something
further away, preferably the past. 

How do you not notice 
the amount of whiskey and wine 
taking tonight. Spilled water 
soaking the table, hands shaking 
too much to wipe away. 

Your emptied glasses out number 
glances. I wonder when I was 
there, not just keeping up, 
but outpacing your orders 
if I was the same. 

Conversation rambling so many 
places, yet somehow going 
nowhere. You’re losing 
words before the sentence 
has a chance to begin. 

You try to convince the room 
a singer is a poet but only when 
started at a certain album. Listened 
through modern heartbreak, 
the type we put each other through. 

No one’s convinced or knows
what we were for six months, 
an uneven love. What we tried 
to put back together in September,
only to fail like we did in May. 

For the first time I think, 
no matter how long we drew 
out leaving, it’s best we went 
separate ways. 

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