This pub.  This chair.
BUT-- by this time, that year,
you were driving me to the airport--
Like you were sending me off to war--
Like you doubted whether I would actually come home this time.

That was the first time you lost me.

The second was after a few too many Peppermint Schnapps,
and I walked you downtown,
through each stage of rejection,
smiling.

The third and fourth are no short story,
mostly for all the time between them,
but also because there are parts of me you'll never get back.

Dark lights, locked doors.
Today the pub is closed.
Sorry.  That's the way it has to be.