At the gate we plighted our troth again
but found our flight had been delayed.
So we took ourselves to the bar instead.
And who does whiskey not make mean?
I believe you meant each word you said
when you claimed you loved, then loathed;
when one night you adored my form unclothed,
next morning, deplored and wished it dead.
It would be a lie to claim I was confused.
I grokked what all this meant: you felt both.
I swirled my straw in amber, pledged my faith
and saw how cunning tenderness is used.
Your eyes in the sun’s last rays shone clear.
It took me six months more to cloud them, dear.

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