AFTER THE DRINKING PARTY

And then she sits there,
with her hands clasped,
in her bedroom or her living room
an hour after the drinking party has finished,
missing the days when she was with me.
Missing the days when she could have my hand on her cheek,
or her head on my chest,
and my arms around her.
But at least she has what she has now,- which is nothing.
A few men who are capable of giving her emotionless orgasms in bed.
Men whose faces mean nothing to her a day later or a week later.
But she would trade it all,
for another kiss with me.