Back to you by The Blackwater Fever.
She drank tea with a slice of lemon,
which kind of summarized the depths
of our differences.
Acerbic and sad, her words like vinegar,
made me wince, and
look for something sweet to
remove her sharp sound.
But it was sour I preferred, and she
looked fine in the morning
draped under silver-blue smoke,
smoke in which she appeared and disappeared
as sunlight first hardened, then softened
her face, a loose robe, loose enough to render
it pointless and unattractive.
There was never any mention of love
the damned do not love beyond hate,
no flowers and wine,
just cheap steaks and beer convenience,
with talk of the hatred of her god who had
made us imperfect, and want each other.
And when she went to somewhere else,
taking the silver-blue smoke,
I found myself wanting her sunlight
softened face just once more.