Goodbye

The bruises on my face
are the hands of a clock
spelling out the time
to put the bottle down.

They say the poet
will create their own material
if it doesn't come to them
and now this place
is a mess.

The empty glasses
have made for a good line
here and there,
but what about the tears
that no longer run
down my lover's face
as I cover her in stone.

The ache from my temples,
the sound of sausages cooking
and the echoes of last night
all shout at me
as I stare long and hard
at some form of ending,
which will only exist
in her eyes
when she walks
through the door.