And it's perhaps perfect in that moment of guilt,
when it's sometime after three in the morn,
and I've been drinking whiskey since seven,
on a hot, humid trembling night,
watching silhouettes drape the irony in the hall,
and I've nowhere else to look or feel,
and nothing to really do but watch an hour wheel,
caressing the creases on the sofa,
and nodding to an old fool sitting in the corner
with a stuffed chicken tikka smile,
wondering if that'll be all,
contemplating whether to head to the loo,
or will I ever be able to sleep again,
or thinking about what it was like
or what I used to do on such evenings,
while you light another cigarette
and touch your foot gently against my leg,
and laugh till your laughter fills the room.

And then suddenly we find ourselves alone,
first in a dark room,
then on the roof,
in a house which could be haunted,
and I think about a poem,
the raven, which I once wanted
to be read on a night like this,
then I feel the breeze among the grim trees,
and then I look at a broken moon,
while you rest your back against the rail,
mumbling sullen apologies,
of some previous evening, of some childish play,
you with your quivering wine lips, pale,
and your sweet vodka breath,
which I gently meet to kiss,
and will forever miss,
because I have someone else beautiful in mind.