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.