You’re the drunken drag of a cigarette

laced with guilt and grime that always seems like

a good idea after a little too much wine

and too little sleep has me convinced

that you’re waiting by the phone with

your ears perked to hear

a familiar voice besides your own

Conversations as comfortable as

slipping back into our old ways

like the gray sweater I’d like to think

you still wear on winter days

when I dial the numbers by habit

hoping that you’re sober enough to tell me

that our story is not completely over



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