The Meadow 31 I hate your thin lips and how you talk tonight at Jewel’s Bar about always wanting to paint a picture so perfectly that every viewer possesses a single shared image. I hate how not a single painting of yours hangs on my walls four states away. I hate how you no longer paint, how you’re so much a could-have, should-have, almost-did but now all that remains from those days is your smoking. You used to have a brush in one hand, a cigarette in the other. I hate those Marlboro Lights and what they might do to you in twenty years, not that it’s my concern since I only see you maybe once every two years. I hate how even though we haven’t spoken in years, you turn to me at the bar, cigarette between fingers and ask, Do you remember that first night we made love? I hate how the bartender can hear my whispered, Yes. I hate that while we talked The Things I Hate Sean Prentiss
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