what she doesn't know

she was a tired poem;
furled around a slab of stiff mahogany
and noticed only when a bottle tipped.
I watched her fold with every spillage,
saw the inspiration dilute from her irises
as she downed a fifth
and plagiarized the very essence of misery,
all while partially gnarled above a splinter.
 
I felt the char of every butt that died prematurely,
flinching when the carpet peeled back branded
with her signature smeared on more than just the filters.
her frame was weightless in those moments,
often buckled down licking salt and blood
as both body and mind encompassed an indifferent calligraphy
she would wake to edit in the morn.
 
now, some years later,
I'm left with nothing but yellowed parchment
blemished with her garbled ink spots,
furled around a slab of stiff mahogany
and noticed only when a bottle is tipped.
there's an aching bomb in that realization,
imploding just beneath the thin stitching of my skin
and burying its self inbetween the cracks left behind
for future reference.
 
It's a reminiscent sorrow I'm compelled to repeat,
but then,
the best poems usually are.