She'd stay up late
reading Milan Kundera
and her tears would run
grey with her mascara
and she often quoted books
by Sarte
to rationalize away
your broken heart.

Years later now, a broken wine glass
  on a kitchen floor
You're already cleaning up Merlot
  as she slams the door.

She was fluent in
  a little French and Hebrew,
& had a life philosophy anyone
  could right see through.
And we all knew she'd pretend
  she was Simone Beauvoir,
when you first visited her,
  pouting in her maroon boudoir.

Years later now, a broken wine glass
  on a kitchen floor
You're already cleaning up Merlot
  as she slams the door.

Occasionally it felt
  almost sexual
the way she'd accuse you of
  being pseudointellectual.
Or she'd shrug,
  "It's complicated,"
to get away with something
  with someone she knew you hated.

Years later now, a broken wine glass
  on a kitchen floor
You're already cleaning up Merlot
  as she slams the door.

And you say to yourself,
  Fuck love,
And think,
  Mazel Tov.