Some nights I get too drunk and look through old photographs,
Taking sips of whiskey each time a memory prompts nostalgic ridicule.
Some nights I come across the photograph of her
Biting the rose I stole (for her) from a street vendor in Brooklyn.
I think of how a thorn grazed the corner of her lip
And the white scratch it left stationed where a smile grows.
Like lipstick smeared on those impassioned nights;
When drinking was for amusement, an enhancement of pleasantries.
What she’s doing on my drunken nights-
Who’s stealing her roses in my stead?
I use the perfection imagination paints
To frolic in the petals I abscond from our memories with.
Better to forget them
Than illuminate a grave
With wilting blossoms.