Her kisses are the perfect reason to stay in bed,
bar the door, close the windows and
drown out the world with our favorite shows on Netflix
and casual substance abuses.
She’s dangerous, holes in her pj’s and Medusa in her hair
while she’s changing a vapor and
complaining about her sister.
On weekdays I’m on a stay-cation,
babysitting beers and cursing at the idiots
Neck deep in her neck, finger ready
on the pulse of a curve I know is a trigger.
And in my heart of hearts, I think,
this is the perfect family.
(Until we actually had one.)
We drink and kiss and
cuss and smoke. Talk about
our problems like
distant cousins we haven’t seen
in a while. Then we fuck, but
not like its a big deal.
Casually, after a really good song
or way the sunlight makes
our skin sing after a beer.
Over covers and offhand,
broad daylight against our
We inhabit each other like
its something we’ve always done,
a quiet that is too comfortable
to have only happened once
a lifetime. Bandits hiding
in a safehouse with the score
we’ve stolen – laughing, spending
all that happiness.
Something in liquor lets my mental ellipses blur. I like the way alcohol allows for things to come more easily, be it a confession, thought, or company I wasn’t exactly fond of.
There are different calibers of drunks, and out my window I see the worst of them. The dog and hound, jeans held down as he releases himself onto a car or corner (he hopes) nobody can see at three in the morning. But someone always does. An abase acceptance of a more basic state of living- primal. The hungry eat, the thirsty drink, and the desirous find a four letter words to fulfill their wants.
Second is the suppressed or megalomaniac. Two very distinct states of being, but both can only answer in one way to liquid opiates: rage, anger, and violence. Either of the physical or verbal reprobate. One explodes like a grenade from the things he never said before, the other shows his true colors in less tasteful expressions of power.
Probably hundreds more, I think, and mine isn’t any different. During the day I’m cold but when night sinks into a whiskey glass, I get so nonchalant. I can’t commit to what makes me angry but rather list all the ways I love you. You not being anyone particular, because, I guess, deep down I must be a harlot. This love is for everybody. For Amanda who had to be so blunt and withdraw from me for no reason other than nationality. For Sam who likes to lie despite 20 years of friendship. For the stranger that called me a faggot on a church pew when I was only asking for direction.
I drink and I love them, all of them, all of you, all of me. Not despite your faults, but because of them.
I am, deep down, nothing but a glutton for punishment.