vodka tastes a little like you.

insomnia circles — ritualistically for a
dark fatigue too sweet to bear
chapped lips wish to kiss the cravings
long past, and the body — though relentlessly sluggish —
had forgotten how easily life could pass away
into dreams.

vodka glass necks — soft and supple like the
stranger brunette over my place last week — smears
of prostitute red and cigarettes —
Heaven now, is a handful of clouds away —

empty bottle bottoms prove no answers
linger, you’d tell me so
but the bitter rush of chilled vodka would taste
no less bitter than you —
and I’d reply, well empty bottle bottoms
don’t hold your love, neither.

but my thoughts elope
and the sad truth is, that I believed
while there were no answers —
maybe, you are as bitter as vodka —
there could have been you
waiting, right at the bottom.

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