Chardonnay in the glass by the window.
There’s a satin pillowcase by the floor where your head was.
I lost track of time for the fifth time yesterday,
When your eyes were shut and your hair smelled
Like the cigarette smoke from her lips.
Her.
Her rose lips from the dark lit room downtown,
Where you drink whiskey the way you like it and
She wears satin dresses that remind you of my gentle pillowcases.
I don’t wear satin dresses.
Even if I were to wear a gentle satin nightgown with space for your hands,
You’d drink more Chardonnay because it tastes like her and her pink mouth.
Your head hurt when you drank that coffee.
I made that coffee earlier yesterday morning but heating it up is no trouble.
Did you miss the whiskey?
That half empty glass bottle could have added to the rich drink I made you.
She would have never considered the way you like your drinks.
She is too busy letting her red fingers dance along the backs of handsome men
And luring your eyes from your hands to her pink lips.
There were pink lips on your collarbone, then I tasted her Chardonnay.
I found that bottle in the supermarket.
It was delicate and light like I figured she was.
Oh, but you fell asleep so fast.
You didn’t get to taste the gentle bottle from the table.
Your Chardonnay is in the glass by the window.
Your gentle little satin has changed colors now,
Switching and fading like her jumping fingertips.
I’ll finish the glass for you while I watch the lights come.
Gentle spinning to lighten every weight I’ve found here,
To make sure the scent of her perfume isn’t here any longer.
Her.