Bittersweet Things End Bitter

It has come.
The moth to the streetlight,
The poison in my gin.

I'm sick of waking up every morning
With a paperback romance novel
On my bedstand
and the warm body it promised
Would always stick around for morning coffee
Gone without a raincheck.

I've taken too many perfect pearls
Out of their oysters
Just to feel them crack in between my
Grinding teeth,
Never to be made into something beautiful.

These wings smoldering in the limelight,
The glory of that burning sensation is gone.
It has come.