A better person would care more,
I suppose,
but then all those years of perfecting
my resting bitch face
would be in vain.  

So go ahead, let her pour you
another drink.
Let her pull summer kisses
from your winter seasoned lips.
I wonder if she can taste me there.
And if she does,
does she chalk it up to the bourbon
still swirling in your mouth –
a dark, oaky flavor she’s never
had the privilege of knowing
intimately.  

You didn’t drink bourbon
until this past November
whenI taught you to put down the
domestic beer and pick up
a touch of class.  

Class. 

That part apparently didn’t stick. 

A better person would care more,
I suppose,
but I’ve always been a bitch.  
At least, that’s what you said
the last time I caught your hands on hips
that weren’t mine.