November flakes touched my nose
when you threw me out,
locking the door and, what’s more
a breath under a premonition hidden
under my tongue.
The Washington winter’s chill
bit frostbite hard.
Pleading through the window,
for the real you,
mascara spreads your cheeks
to the beat of thunder in your
voice, saying everything, and then
some you’ll regret when the vodka
wears off, and I’ll be gone like
a thief in the California wind.
Christmas can wait until next year
when you’re sober
Lessons learned, drinking
is worse than leaving.
(© 2022 AC)