Sonnet 39 – Empty

It rained hard this Christmas evening. I loved
the storm when I could spend my nights with her.
Rain and games and Irish coffee once moved
her to play me. Her wild, whiskey laughter

was throaty and warm, full of dark promise.
So brazen – my tigress, my temptress – she
slipped off her sweater, leaned back and smiled. This
woman, this wicked wonder, taunted me,

challenged me to meet her need with my own.
Soon, clothes were scattered and we found our way
through stark, hungry passion to a dance grown
true and sure, more loving than lost. This day,

though, I’m alone and she’s home for Christmas.
Hollow, angry, I fill my empty glass.