By Mike Smolarek

Brown eyes looking at him

sadly saying he had done something wrong

something that hurt

but he was too drunk to see them,

to dizzy to know he had done

what he had done.

She left him there, storming out

packed bags in hand,

as he passed out

on the couch, his brown hair messed,

smelling like stale beer and

menthol cigarettes.

The shining winter sun reflecting off the TV

woke him sometime the next morning

and he was alone in the house.

He didn’t remember coming home,

he didn’t remember that he had done

what he had done.

He got up and showered the stale beer away,

wondered where she had gone so early on a Saturday,

and waited for her

even though she was

never coming back.