Her Favorite

I spilled my glass of cheap red wine as i passed and your favorite dress would be forever stained but you hardly cared, i was busy writing odes to your lips and the indent in your cheek and the perfect green of your eyes: lit up as if by fireflies from the inside because you were incandescently drunk and at the point in which everyone in that cramped ugly apartment was your best friend

I was floating, as if touching the dirty ceiling of the room, you looked down at yourself in your stained dress, your lips too red your hair static-y from dancing, your eyes fluttering up at me: enchanted by the oh so casual way you held the stem of the wine glass and lifted one rogue strap over your pale shoulder blade, god i was really such a fool for you

the next morning: the mascara you left on my pillow case doesn’t feel like a victory in the harsh light of day, you left without eating breakfast. dry mouth, heavy eyelids, your stained dress, you disappear through the walls of your bedroom like so many women before you