The first love felt she was getting drunk at last.
At the same time it crossed my mind,
That we really should be leaving.
It was funny: a few minutes before the argument started,
I had a feeling something was wrong.
I looked warily round, and my gaze settled
On a couple in the corner.
I thought nothing of their arguing to begin with,
As it grew louder the room became interested.
I struggle to remember now what they were arguing about;
It ended with a slap that much I remember.
The guy who squatted in the house down the Cowley Road,
A friend of a friend, said and did nothing,
Just drank a pink drink and shrugged.
He had just cooked up in his bedroom,
And was gutted when everyone dispersed soon after,
Before the shooting up.
I was stone cold sober;
But the girlfriend was by then gin addled,
Innevitability she would break down at some point,
Miserably it was only a matter of time.
I lost her for a bit in the melee post slap.
I hated to hear her sobbing back then;
I can just about remember the contorted face
And the noise that came out of it,
A yelping sniffle that would not stop.
It was out of her control: hyperventalating,
As the tears continued to drip from her chin,
And the gin mist took hold;
In the taxi or in her bedroom it did not matter,
She talked only of my momentary absence and sobbed,
Until eventually, exhausted, she slumped to one side,
Closed her blood shot eyes and snored.
Absent always now those nights cling on just,
And out themselves as a sound, a sight, a smell.
Memories are made of only this as I dwell,
In a point in time spent alone with her,
When I think I can hear those sweet gin tears
Through the endless drunken din.