Regret Burned

She comes into the bar, face barren from makeup and hair a right mess. Her clothes look strewn on like a second thought, eyes wide and constantly expressive (but of what? Not yet know) searching the bar.

I am a drunk in a night barren between day and night, half black clouds and half an eerie glowing blue. The humidity is up, sweaters cuffed yet.

I watch the wicks furl on the candle before me,

The wax wet the pastel bottoms.

I bite my lip- a bit further, down half the flesh and wait for the familiar and comforting scent of ash.

I watch it form, thick and heavy dark until it burns away its old sense.

I learned many things without you.

I learned to drive, how to change my car oil without it running on my skin-

I learned how to pay my own taxes, and how to act out my career.

I learned how other people’s hearts sound when I’m resting my head against their chest, And I learned how to take care of myself when I thought it futile.

(But I don’t want to learn anything more without you. I want to learn you.)

I touch the pulse in my neck with my thumb, digging it in like the pliable juicy flesh of a peach.

I look at folk young and old engaged

I yearn

I look at the indents on my can from my nails and taste liquor and regret and ache and oh, do I ache.

I watch condensation drip and clench my jaw

I say the wrong thing and regret.