[a terza rima]
Late night, after the restaurant
you dragged us away
to your old haunt
Too familiar with how your eyes play,
you liked the way I spelled 'chrysanthemum,'
less when I refused to stay.
You sang your apologies like an anthem
for the the things you knew you lacked
and asked me to forget them.
And, through the bed sheets, my stomach racked
I was never quite sure how
all I had known had been attacked
Now, on the list of what you don't allow,
is to talk about the things I want.
He's not the guy that you are now.