it's not over

Here’s to oak countertops
that hold our weary heads.
The ancient wood under scar-laden, age-ridden forearms
has seen thousands of nights like this before.

And here’s to hope.
It is that sole yearning for somthing more
anything more
anything better
that carries us towards tomorrow.

Or on second thought,
scratch that toast.
Because your delusions are not solutions
regardless of what I have heard.

Last call.
Cheers to empty glasses
but don't forget to leave room for one last round.
My liver can take a few more punches,
it’s my heart you should worry about. 

Here’s to face down photographs
save us bloodshot eyes.
Pathetically iconic of their subjects,
both nothing more than a grainy lost cause.

And here’s to love that never was.
To that moment when you realized
you loved the idea more than the person.
It just wasn't worth it
fighting for somthing that wasn't there,
never was there to begin with.

One last toast to the inability
to cut one’s losses and move on. 
Maybe we're nothing more than addicts.
Completly unable to function without
each other's parasitic presence.

To tell you the truth,
sometimes I wonder if the message here is,
“Hun, you’ve had enough”.
Except that I'll tell you when I'm through.
Only to end it on anything but my own terms.

Plus,
your words are just a chaser
and I’m an alcoholic who doesn’t touch the stuff. 

Stop worrying love,
you know me better than this.
You’re my ditch, not my car keys
and I’m driving myself home.