How The Evening Murdered The Morning

When you get up from the table,

Your wine is spilled;

It drips like a million goodbyes from your lips,

Those inviting betrayers.

So are we only a bad vintage?

A mess to be cleaned up

Or covered with apologies, wry jokes, or chilly poise?

Now,

Everything will evaporate

Leaving just a sticky residue,

A charmless accident...

Nothing that will warm us,

Nothing that will lead us to say things that would have found us sharing the morning,

Together like two goblets

Still lipsticked from the night before,

Lit up and lovely in the rising sun.

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