I’m afraid when next we speak
you’ll no longer remember me.
If enough time passes
between alcohol-fueled adventures
you might not recognize your little Sweet Pea.
That’s me.
I’m your little Sweet Pea.
Look…

We were getting along so very well last time.
I thought we were approaching intimacies.
You gave me some glances
that were really hard to ignore
and I don’t think you ignored
just how hard I was
when I helped you into that cab.
There was that Sweet Pea thing, too,
which I hope wasn’t a urine reference.
Moving on.

The whiskeys kept flowing
and by evening’s end,
you seemed real gone,
drunken well into the state
of the junkie nod
you waving your cigarette hand
like a spell was being cast
and looking through objects
with some second sight.
When we stumbled out of the bar
we somehow lost each other
and now I fear
it might be forever.

Like last time
when I recognized you
from months before
and you had no clue
about who I was.
I worry that the bourbon
leaves more of an impression than me
and it’ll be months
before we may meet
for a third time.

I hope
when we next see each other
you can recall
some of what we knew
and see in me
just a little bit of Sweet Pea.