I got off my face once I'd put you on the train,
but I might have been pissed from the beginning
for all the notice you took.

Slumped on a barstool, watching my warped reflection
in the bottom of a glass, I spat at what I found.
Missed. Swore, remembering.

Each patronising word and kiss-on-the-forehead
was made ugly, grotesque; and I dosed up
on a stubborn hatred. Without it

I couldn't be without you.