Bourbon Sweat

Choices,
mistakes.


Words
written out on a beach
on a sunny day
in the back of your mind-
words that
never quite washed away
when the weather
turned cold.


You will never stop hearing the echo,
you will never stop feeling that certain pain,
you will never stop reaching for another,
then another,
and another.


You will never stop shivering when a cigarette is
snubbed out
beneath a tall
black
heel.


You will always think of those glasses-
that musty car
and the smear of make-up.


You were the one that made them cry,
but you never remember it that way.


They left you,
they abandoned you like some spoiled thing
like some festering boil
like some unwanted child.


They called you 'too much work'
and somehow
you were indifferent.


We are often defined by such stupid things
moments of insanity,
moments that were once so clear-
so cut and dry.
Now they seem like
any
other
outcome
would have been better.


So many nights of staring into mirrors and
splashing cold water onto warm, red faces
over and over,
and over.


This is where you should be
here and now,
and we know it,
but that will never assuage that certain pain
and the thought of how much time has passed will never
muffle the echo.


You will always reach out for another
and no matter now strong the tide,
that message way,
way back,
in the sands of your mind
will never wash away.


It all sounds so depressing
so dire,
so in need of a stiff drink;
but it amounts to little more than
one
more
night
splashing cold water
onto a hot,
red,
face.