NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: Day 4

[a terza rima] 

Late night, after the restaurant 
you dragged us away 
to your old haunt

Too familiar with how your eyes play,
you liked the way I spelled 'chrysanthemum,' 
less when I refused to stay. 

You sang your apologies like an anthem 
 for the the things you knew you lacked 
and asked me to forget them. 

And, through the bed sheets, my stomach racked
I was never quite sure how
all I had known had been attacked 

Now, on the list of what you don't allow, 
is to talk about the things I want. 
He's not the guy that you are now.