I once knew a man

who married his highschool sweetheart.

He would meet me on the weekends

in a ***** hotel room.

When I'd arrive he'd be laying on the bed,

a cigarette in his mouth

and a bottle of whiskey in hand.

"She used to love me," he'd say. "Then she left."

Then he'd cough up a tired laugh.

Once he told me that I looked like her when she was young.

Tears littered his cheeks

as he recalled the love they shared.

"Now look where I am. I'm stuck here with a *******."

That whole year I didn't know his name until last month

when he said, "John Adair."

I scribbled it down on my palm and never saw him again.

The next day I went looking for her.

I finally found her this day.

So here I sit on this cold New Years day

silence thick in the air as I stare at the grave of

Cynthia Adair.