Distaste

I sat there,
listening to the sounds of a life I was once part of.
I sat there and watched as days and months counted themselves,
and could but agree that, yes,
that life is past for me.

I listened to recounting of drunken nights,
I listened to boasting with days lost in drink.
I listened and I grew foreign.

I have lost interest in loosing control,
and I have grown weary of blurred thought.
I no longer care for the messiness that is drink,
I will leave those days in the past.

I ask that you do not take it badly,
I ask you not to take hurt in me turning my back to your habits.
Do not think my leaving an act of arrogance,
or that I would think your company distasteful,
as that is not the case.

I will not judge your way of spending your nights,
but neither shall I join,
when join I would not.

For that,
I would find distasteful.