The

parlour empties after the third song.
You tell me

you need a cigarette and dump the accordion on my lap.
The fog seeps in as you

open the front door
and I worry because you’re wearing black.

I worry because you’ve never offered me a cigarette
or asked

to go for a walk at midnight.
The champagne sticks to my fingers
and I wished I’d grabbed your hand
and said
“I’ll go with you.”