You Were More Like the Post on Sundays; Never There

He was fiery shots of vodka
Lurching past my chewed lips
And you were the caress
Of a summer breeze
On a lazy afternoon.
You were a burst of
Sugary sweet goodness
On my tongue
But he was the crackle
Of burning glass
And lighters
Meeting
Addictive.
You were a rare burst of watery sunlight
Trickling from overhanging clouds
Then and again
But he was rage
Thunderstorms
Clouds battling and
Furious raindrops.
You were the bubbling murmur
Of conversation
In the library on a Sunday afternoon
But he was the slur
Of a midnight phone call
And the vomit
On my dress.
You were the reliable
Re-creatable scent
Of sharp pine aftershave
In plastic bottles
But he was the intoxicating
Indistinguishable scent
Of lust and smoke
And cigarette ash.
You were caller ID
And he was an unknown number
A solitary confinement
Of blindingly blue eyes
And unspoken words.