whiskey breath

you have studied the patterns carved by the

condensation that trails down your glass, leaving

rings on the countertop and

soaking your sleeve.

number three or thirteen—

you are saying goodbye in dark bars

and searching for signs of life in the street.

the whole world is asleep.

the whole world is waiting for you to

come home.

you have memorized the way

people turn into streaks of light, how they

blur and shift across your eyes, never

wasting their time.

catastrophic. you are falling behind.

another one, then.

you imagine yourself elusive as the birds

that startle you awake at half-past eight,

on your pillow of porcelain and

throat raw from last night’s mistakes.

or are they warnings?

day eight or fifteen or it doesn’t fucking matter:

you are choosing to forget the way your

hands shake and you dream of spiders

at the bottom of your water glass.

one more won’t hurt.

in your blood a condemnation

of killing yourself slowly and

the breathless silk of yearning

and the maggots nesting in your liver

and the poison that you take.