drunken kisses.

 The sound of jingling keys
in the lock warns me
that my time of solitude
has come to an end.

She dances over to me,
wrapping her arms 
around my waist.

The smell of vodka on her lips
is strong enough
for me to taste.

"Your hair smells like smoke,"
I tell her, in half a whisper,
as it falls across my face.

She doesn't say a word 
and I'm grateful for that
because words are too hard to erase.

She kisses me vigorously
but I already know this dance
and I know her ways.

She only kisses me when she's drunk
and, when she's drunk,
she strays..