Coated was he, in blankets of dreary misery.
Dripping with that solemness,
the kind you could only find at the bottom of
a bottle, screwed shut so tight,
you never really could get it to open
I asked, sullenly, from across my low self-esteem, ‘Would you care for a drink?’
The syrup is stronger come nightfall.
The price of the vice much higher.
Wine and liquor, never sicker.
The years flew by for me as mere minutes,
and I spent all of them idled in a tipsy stupor.
I forgot what your face looked like,
but my memory of you is still the same,