each stays as long as water caught in clasped hands,
with me grasping for the last drops, falling through my fingers.

and each leaves a stain upon my memory,
stuck to the edges, squeezed dry for a last glimpse.

you whisper "I love you" under new black sheets,
kiss me in your old toyota, geered up to "catch some babes".

you hook, lined, and sinkered me too fast.

"i love you" is said only with a shot of brandy down the throat,
and pants tightening after a long day.

each cuts like scissors through that old picture of us,
long forgotten in a bedroom drawer.