Bailey's on the rocks

As I sit here and suck
the last of this slightly alcoholic dessert
from the melting cubes in my tumbler
I'm rewound a year
to the two (or four, in retrospect) of us
on the couch in my old place
watching movies and drinking the same.

But now, a year later
the couch is the only thing that hasn't changed:
you're old enough to buy your own booze
and the rare times that I watch movies
never involve blankets or casual sex
or you

and that's OK, too.



(This is the part where I'm supposed to say I've changed;
maybe I have, but that's not for me to decide
and arbitrary anyway...
though I haven't thrown any beer bottles across any rooms
or screamed into any phones in a long time.)



The girls are gone, I'm holding out for women;
a spine, a plan, another mind to learn from, maybe a degree.
It's funny, though. The more I chrystalize my criteria
the more I realize I've already had most of that
and blew it.
The best way to come to grips
is to squeeze my eyes closed as tight as possible
until that flashing checkerboard pattern appears
and laugh that sick laugh
reserved for madmen in movies
and those with an appreciation for irony
even in the face of death.

The best jokes in life have no punchlines.

Suffice it to say I've learned that coming home to that empty house
isn't as bad if you've remembered to leave the porch light on for yourself.



Just in case the title worked
and by chance
you read this:
it wasn't some sad attempt
at spite
or guilt
or even reconciliation, necessarily.

I guess I just wanted to say
that I don't regret that tattoo
and I hope that you don't wish you could
scratch yours off either.