Our first kiss tasted like whiskey,
with all the warmth of the summer sky.
I love whiskey, but that isn't why
I tasted her lips again that night.
Her eyes sparkle when she smiles,
when she laughs, or when she's deep in thought,
but they also glimmer when she cries,
and bitter are the tears she's wrought.
Her laugh is ringing, dancing, rife
with beauty that one seldom hears.
In me, its sound rekindled life,
even when directed elsewhere.
Her words had meaning, and still they do,
though rarely are they cast my way,
except in greeting, or adieu
as she leaves me to my thoughts again.
I watched as she walked down the hall,
to find a carefree sleep, I hoped.
Her door clicked shut, my spirits fell,
yet I knew I hung from my own rope.
Long before she closed that door,
I slammed shut several of my own.
There's no respite, no redemption for
the coward who simply watched her go.
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