The roses are blooming and cloying
The vase on the counter is new
I find it acutely annoying
That one of your rugs is askew.
I know from your eyes you’re enjoying
The very same wine I can’t stand.
I spend the entire night toying
With the ring sitting on my left hand.

You say, “Is there anything sweeter
Than kissing a lover goodbye?”
The creak of the puttering heater
Absolves me the need to reply.
You make a drunk toast to St. Peter,
To reaching his heavenly vault.
I wonder how badly you treat her;
I wonder how much is my fault.

The night has grown frigid and waning,
I stare out the windows and smoke.
You yawn and begin your complaining
On how she is running you broke.
Outside, it is sullen and raining,
I’m heavy with secrets I keep.
I know there’s no point in remaining.
When I leave, you’re already asleep.