Clean

I drank the last of your scotch.
Though it's been months now,
still there is a burn
spreading delicately
intricately
over my tongue
malty and cool from beer,
so complex
that's why it's your drink,
right? To match your complexity.
Right.
So fyi the bottle's going to recycling,
it won't be kept as trophy or souvenir,
its presence an afterthought
as I made way for beautiful things.
A few drops of your scotch,
triumphantly presented,
safe, wasn't it,
to let your careless vices flourish here,
for a time,
hiding, making sly admissions
wooden omissions.
I won't say the things
I could say
I don't want to embarass you,
even to friends,
besides
it's enough for you to know
that I could.