My Intoxicated Beau

Your burnt out cigarette desperately holds on to the edge of your lips
as the strings of your guitar give in to the delicate graze of your fingers;
the transfixed stars patiently listen to the tranquil tune of your ballad,
perceiving every note, every syllable and every breath you set free.

I watch you closely from across the room, behind the thin wall of smoke
that holds me captive in a prison where your existence means nothing;
my thoughts run in circles and my heart throbs in quick, short pulses,
my body's usual response to alcohol, my body's usual response to you.

You gently set down the guitar and steadily make your way towards me,
dodging the bodies that obstruct your course, disregarding the faces
that prevent you from reaching me before I disappear into the night;
I feel a hand in mine, a tender grip persuades me to stay a bit longer.

I sit on the farthest end of the couch, static, unmoving and disconcerted,
you rest your head on my lap and press your face against my palm
as though you are afraid that I would suddenly vanish like the sun;
I look down on you and recognize a man that I no longer understood.

You fall in a deep sleep with your fingers loosely intertwined with mine,
your face, wearing an expression of both contentedness and victory,
an image that shatters the last surviving piece of my broken heart;
I wait for the tears to swell but they refuse to fall for you tonight.

Will you ever need me when you're not under the influence?
When will you ever love me the way I do? Clearheadedly and sober.
I carefully let your head drop on a pillow and kiss you one last time,
as I slowly let go of your hand, I finally let go of you completely.