One hundred stinging subtleties that dance around our heads,
a thousand conversations, a million thoughts unsaid.
A dozen empty bottles, a score of bad ideas,
for centuries they’ll remember, kids will want to be us.
“Please be safe getting home,” you said.
“It’s getting kind of late and your eyes are kind of red.”
The wine has spilled, my hopes are killed, and all that I can say,
“I’d rather crash out on the road than crash here at your place.”