we were about to leave,
yet another glass of absinthe;
a decadent raunchiness to feed,
one more moral margin to bleed.
as the sugar cube melts
into the bitter liqueur,
doesn’t make it more sweet
doesn’t fill the pit in the soul.
soon you’ll lose your restraint
and challenging my stoicism,
you’ll slam the keys on the tab,
afterwards you’ll stand up and leave.
for a moment I’ll have an impulse to follow
your drawing away silhouette,
then the card house of heed will collapse
into the vortex of misdeed.