I* saw my reflection in the glass that I lifted to my face. It was the

reflection of a drunken disappointment,  and this red wine tasted

like  loneliness and sad  poetry. I don't know what you did to

me, but

Hemingway,  Neruda and Fitzgerald all went down in history,

and I'm starting to understand why. Unrequited love. One  more sip

and the next drunken  poet is me.


*-Sandoval