your geometry is perfect between neck
and shoulder, but those eyes are a lying shade
of salvation. i try to paint you
amethyst and champagne: something classier
than the cheap booze you drink
warm from the can, right before you prove
that blondes do it better.

say i shouldn't blame you, that if honey
hadn't crossed your line maybe you could
be all that jazz. all i see is how it's you
on the cross now, and i wonder how
you pounded that last nail in.

i brought you carnations: funeral flowers,
you said, like you couldn't see
my hangover, like you weren't bathing
in someone else's afterglow. i should leave
you and never regret it. instead i wake up
tomorrow with yesterday's guilt in my mouth.

but it's funny, how i always thought
you were the vulnerable one.