Something Or Other

I drove home with limp wrists and unsteady eyes,

the road become glass beneath the tears of the midnight clouds.

Stoplight reflections showed only the faults in my assumptions.

The bottle you held in your hands all night was hot as flame,

twisted and re-twisted between fingers,

uncomfortable as you were.

I've never seen you so uncomfortable.

I'd like to apologize in some way,

unsteady as I was,

the alcohol giddily lifting the edges of my mouth,

Uncomfortable as you were.

At this point I should really know where the line ends and where the next begins.

However that delineation has always been a rough adumbration,

a crude smudge of black into grey.

Eventually I will learn where your edges become sharpened glass,

rough to traverse and rougher to abrade --

until then simply bear with my slow adaptation.

The stoplights are bleeding into the medians,

the yellow lights now messy yolks spilling into the passing lanes --

the rain has obscured what is typically certain. 

And yet, this skeleton animated by inebriation,

this shell I call a self,

is still not concerned that you would abandon it.

I could not ask for more.

This lack of uncertainty is a gift I have not previously received,

and I appreciate it more than you may be able to understand.