Drifter

A catastrophe on two legs,
I can't tell
if you're too drunk
or crying
or both.
Your hands rubbing
your eyes and face.
Maybe that produced the red.
Maybe that's just sweat
from the dance floor
pouring down your cheeks.

I find it now surprising
that you're here alone,
holding up the wall,
rejecting all willing options.
Perhaps they're too willing
to the point of desperate,
and I wonder if
I'd been that way with you.

You told me
you'd been cut free
suddenly
without notice,
and after six years
are uncomfortable
with the forced
goal-less-ness.
So your new goal,
a professional drifter.

I'm exploring,
different from drifting by intention.
When I complained, you disagreed--
"Never mind you didn't like him,
what an ego boost to have been kissed!"
I quipped my ego is fine enough.

How frustrating it is, then,
that so few understand you--
They think whim kisses
obligate a night's commitment.
They think a few free nights
mean seriousness.
To kill the point
you kissed away
before the eyes of seriousness
on the lips of whim
then went home alone.

I'm sorry I asked you.
Pure selfishness on my part.
It's clear that was not good for you,
but I'll not take it away,
nor slight your ego.
The present also not good for you
(though you think otherwise).
I am here if you need me,
and still here
even if you don't.