The Hill-Marketa Irglova

A bottle and a half down.
Darling, your face is deviating into Venn diagrams,
And I lose my footing.
Crash down on the stairs, losing my will
Next to you, sitting shotgun in a car
Chain-smoking, shirt disheveled by the pouring rain.
Losing my will, losing my heart piece by piece.

I’m tired of these lonesome evenings.

Choking down sobs, bile in the back of my throat.

Staring out at sunset after sunset, unmoved.
The myriad of oranges and rose colors
The tangible mirage I cannot find the dignity to enjoy.