The Bar

The bar was closed for a private party
another sign that perhaps it was time to let go.

It was your bar anyways
soaked with Jägermeister shots and kamikazes
the bartender your friend not mine.

Although when I went to our bar with my friend

(the one with the hyena laugh, you said,
eyes never leaving her breasts,
transfixed by the inhale exhale motion of her breasts
as always thinking with the little head
I’m surprised you even noticed her laugh)

and you were gone, a fake business trip

He plied me with shots, orgasms and blow jobs –
I repaid the favor.

I want to call although everyone says I should
leave things be, give you time to cool off,
to decide if you still want to be with me.

We agreed to be civilized, give each other space
though I’m the injured party; after all,
who walked in on who and
how unfair that I can’t even go to my bar anymore
because that is where your friends hang out?

Good thing I left my phone at home
I hate this feeling of being alone.

I bet they are the ones with the party, and me here,
stumbling down these dismal streets by myself
because who wants to drink with the broken-hearted
when they get unnecessarily maudlin?

Looking for an open bar
to drown the sorrow of your leaving in

Sometimes I think it would be easier
if I could just learn to hate you.