Impurity

My friends say

a night on the town

 is what I need

to forget him.

But the snow

continues pounding down

and the wind blows

harassingly upon me.

They don’t understand,

his mocha eyes

 are no longer here

to warm my failing spirits.

My friends say

one more shot

will cure the ache

or at least subside it.

But don’t they know

tequila is a dangerous bet

for a forth shot

at 10:43 on a Tuesday?

Especially without his

muscular arms

catching yet another

dizzy depressed downfall.

This new boy says

I’m pretty and

he would like

to buy my next drink.

But his eyes

are just a cliché blue

 of small puddles

without any depth.

I keep searching

for some kind of comfort

at bottles bottoms

in a unrelenting pace.

But the same results

continue to occur:

All that’s left is

the emptiness of your heart.

I walk back alone

and the winds have not calmed.

The snow still continues

falling down upon me.

The path should be

a pure white slate,

but its muddied

and unclean.

Doesn't he see

what’s he’s done?

His mistakes cannot

be wiped away.

And this snow

can no longer

be pure.