A Glass Of Rose.

But those roots below your heart,
Will wrap around my neck,
Crush my throat,
Burning it more than this glass of rose ever could.

alcohol is a sin.
With a glass of rose in my hand
And a raw cigarette in the other
Tonight I gaze at the front door
In an uncomfortably comfortable silence
And wait for you to come home 
And I seem to have lost count of how many times I’ve landed here
Sitting on the chestnut brown stairs
The same shade as your locks and mine
The ones you parted in the middle,
And flaunted your distinct bald line, 
I imagine you coming through that door
Any minute, any second
Shouting you’re back  
hoping I’m not up
For sleep doesn’t come,
Without you by my side anymore,
Ironically my toxic habits now,
Are why you’re lying within four white walls, 
Nevertheless, 
This glass is my way to cope,
And sometimes my mind drifts to the possible future,
And my throbbing head in your lap,
But those roots below your heart,
Will wrap around my neck,
Crush my throat,
Burning it more than this glass of rose ever could,
And yet I’ll lay there,
Choking, 
Gasping, 
Over and gone will be the wait,
For you’ll finally be here,
But all that pain makes me wonder,
That maybe,
Just maybe,
This time for me,
It will be too late.

- 'i'm sorry but his liver is too damaged to save.'

4 thoughts on “A Glass Of Rose.

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