She passed by last night but ended up sleeping over.
*******, the sheets smell of her,
And of ***.

She's gone now, and he's hungover from her loving.
He sits up on the bed,
Downs the half-empty glass of whiskey
And grabs the packet of cigarettes on the night stand, pulls one out, lights up, takes a long pull,
And thinks about her.
Her pretty little ankles,
Her legs. Oh, her legs.
Her small waist,
Her long curly hair.
Her pretty little fingers.
When he closes his eyes he can still feel them upon his fingertips.

He pours a full glass of whiskey
And drinks half of it in one go, wincing in the process.
He thinks of last summer,
And of the times they had.
It's all memories now. Just memories.
Shelved and forgotten somewhere
As if they were an old dusty record.

He downs the other half of the glass, this time without wincing.
He thinks of the places they made love.
The shower,
The bedroom and even the patio.
The kitchen- that was the best.
They were too busy having ***, he thinks,
While their love died of neglect somewhere in the living room.

He wrote her a letter a while back
And when she read it she got angry.
Said she'd write one back but she didn't know how to express how angry she felt
So he wrote her a note saying; Why not ink it in red, baby?
She laughed,
He was glad to know that sometimes he still made her happy.

She left because she didn't want the pain anymore.
The pain of knowing she shared him with another,
So she left that night, under the 1 o'clock moon,
Carrying her broken heart,
And wearing a sad smile.

He watched her leave
And smiled ruefully,
Thinking that she gave him all her trust, and he misused it,
He abused it,
Until he broke it.
Not because he wanted to, but because he was careless.
But he knows that hardly justifies anything.

People used to say they make a good pair, they work well together.
But so does pain and drugs.
And that's a deadly combination.

Things unsaid,
Empty bed,
Pillowcase soaked in tears-
This is what she's reduced to.

His heart's not broken though, he thinks.
He's been here before,
He knows this feeling;
The wound turns to a scar, and eventually
The scar disappears.
And he knows it's just a matter of time 'fore it all goes,
This heart problem is only temporary.
But in some years it'll be his lungs- he wonders if they've gone black already.

He flips the cigarette-**** while aiming for the ashtray
And misses.
So he picks it up from the carpet and places it there.
Then he bums a new one and lights it
And falls back on his bed-
Goddamit, these sheets smell of her, he thinks,
And of ***.