You ask me to hold your drunken breathe,
but who are you to tell me what to do.
Hold your unstable body in a sturdy frame, as I guide you home.
I let you slur words in my ear,
something like “I think I might love you.”
Please insert eye roll where appropriate.
It’s unfortunate, but I don’t accept drunk confessions.
I wish you’d sober up and tell me something definite,
something I could hold on to for future reference.
Tell me what my chances are.
Don’t leave me waiting after sloppy confessions and mumbled kisses,
for you to wake up, memory intact,
in the hopes that you’ll tell me something real for once.

– Priscillamf (22.05.17)

(I said I would post more, but I posted less. This poem is wary or rather I am, about this poem.)