You will not expect it
You will be out with friends
When the news of her existence accidently spills
All over your barstool
Do no wipe it away
Let it tear through the leather,
And stick to all of those who choose to sit there when you leave
You will want to down three more shots of cheap liquor
Then three more, as many more that you need to throw up tonight's words that climbed out of your friend's mouth and into your shot glass
You will mumble regrets into the toilet bowl as your liver aches because it is your punching bag in times like these
You will want to call him and will go as far as holding the phone in your hand with his number dialed by memory
Do not call him
He does not want to hear your drunken proclamations of amour
He does not care for you, no matter how many times your heart has tried to convince you that he does
If he did you would know it because the small things would be the obvious ones
You will wake up the next morning feeling fatigued and cold but though you are in agony you will look forward to more alcohol
Because the burn in your throat is an easier pain to bear than the thought of him kissing someone else
Reality laughs at your consistent attempts to run away from it
And will always be there, standing in the door way the next morning