#drinking probs

Misty eyed, she leaves in the dead of night.

She leaves no note on the table, no apology,

no stripped bed.

Instead, she leaves her scent in every nook

and corner of the place.

She leaves her fingerprints on the stairwell

and a piece of her hair in the drain.

She leaves her market list taped to the fridge

and all of her clothes in the dryer.

But still, she leaves him.

  There are storm clouds in their eyes

but she won't compromise.

There’s fear beneath her bravery

and heartbreak pulls through his veins.

She rhymes if you bring up his name

but that’s not the truth.

Two weeks later, she screams his name in the dead of night,

her nails curled into her sweaty sheets, like she never stopped.

  When he wakes up each morning after,

he hears no coffee, smells no warm shower running.

The walls have been scrubbed of her paint

and the claw marks in his back have long since faded.

Metaphors for her loss are scribbled

across his bedspread, his mirror, his knees.

All of his footsteps sound like her as he shuffles for the table.

She’s left nothing but the dying flowers in the vase

and the breaking milk bottle in the fridge.

The laundry’s not done and it’s trash day.

She’s giving up on him.

He won't say anything.

It’s called a compromise when you both sacrifice.

She would’ve followed him anywhere

but now all she sees

is his burning desire to drink away his losses

and talk away his hurt.

Just a shoulder to cry on,