after anna akhmatov

i drink to our failed love,
to the song-less moments that were its days
to the loneliness our togetherness
                                        acquainted me with.

i drink to you
to those lips that only lustered
with the silliness of your half truths
to those eyes that only twinkled
with the deadness of your heart
to the fact our love, unlike love, depressed
me counts more than it refreshed me
to the fact time, in its quintessential brutality,
took his time before saving me from you.