Mid-way, Poetry 455.

Some Saturday night in a lost season of a lost year.

There is a headache hiding in the bottom of this bottle;
tilting back, inhaling sweet wine sound waves,
I breathe in a migraine that settles calm into my veins.

Laying on the grass by some embering fire I took you to,
you’re staring at the ground while I’m staring at the stars,
my guitar still vibrating and my voice just now shut.

Somehow, I’m considering how the drive home we’ll take
will be primarily silent, cold, and confused.
It’s some season in some year that I’ve forgotten about.

Smelling like smoke and wine and your cologne,
and the talk of my friends still buzzing on my tongue,
I find the headache hiding in the bottom of a bottle

that I drank while sitting down by the embers.
“You give your hand to me, and then you say hello - ”
your voice sounds like wine, flowing in the car,

the only thing allowed outside of my shy quiet
and the constant, settled pressure in my temples.
“Well, you don’t know me.”

“You give your hand to me, and then you say goodbye - ”
Shaking at the thought of you moving away, I linger,
the passenger’s seat made empty when you decide on silence.

“And anyone can tell,
you think you know me well,
well, you don’t know me.”