To My Dear Friend, the Morning After (epistolary poetry assignment)


I never meant for my voice to be that loud. The wine, you see, was the finest kind, and it flowed. Bottle after bottle, it flowed. Each glass, a layer of lubrication to my thoughts until they slid out of me unabated and unfiltered.

 I never meant to pull your trigger, releasing your anger like a shot.  I’m very good at saying the wrong thing sober, still it was the wine, you see, the finest kind, and it flowed. Each glass opened my mouth wider and wider. What else could I do but insert foot?

 Can you ever forgive my faux pas? My folly of words as they slid from my lips? Someone said, “She’s cut off.” And the guests all laughed. I saw your furrowed brow as it flowed from my overturned glass as I rose, unsteadily, to go.

 I never meant what I said. Please forgive my feckless imitation of social grace. My loose lips and traitorous tongue. You see, it was the wine, the finest kind, and oh, how it flowed. But my deepest regrets remain. 

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