you said my love tastes like
dinnertime texts and sweet red wine,
the beginning of a new year,
and the gentle swell of hope at the
promise of something more

but your love, it tastes like
the burn of whiskey and cigarettes,
disappointment and regret,
and your sweetest birthday kisses on
the mouth of someone else

and you, you could never get enough but
i much prefer the taste of being alone