The Parting Glass

you asked me once

if i thought you were cheesy,

as if ordering a charcuterie board

was somehow a mistake.

i showed up because i knew you’d

serve me the finest spread– 

soft cut white keys and black

fresh berries plucked on strings,

we shared adolescent memories of laughter

like feeding one another sweet round grapes.

sweeter still was your tongue drizzled with

honeysuckle, whispered and wanting,

cut by a harsh finale’s applause. 

my hands empty and red– 

hollow echoes inside a home

i wanted to buy, but you were just a renter.

now i only think of you

when i drink my bitter red wine.