a toast to wrists

i'd see you at the bar
lips parted
biting on your tongue
writing on cocktail napkins
haikus
free verse
thinking too hard


Bukowski? i asked.
your lips curling into a smile
you know Bukowski?
i nod


you buy me shots of tequila
until i'm telling you about my dead brother
and we argue about ACDC and The Beatles
and the meaning of lyrics as a form of poetry


your apartment is a mess
and we tiptoe around
7 inches dirty clothes yellowing paperbacks


we barely kiss
and all i leave with is the taste
of vomit in my mouth
 
¶ 12:44 PM |