She said
'drink not the beer of men,
for it is stale and tasteless.
drink your fill of the beer of women,
for it is cool and harkening.

'lay not your head upon your pillow,
for it is with lonely songs you shall sleep.
lay your head upon my pillow,
for it is in this sleepless night we shall rejoice.

'you are tired, not of waking,
but of your bones being uwarmed,
your marrow unsucked,
your hair untussled.

'come, into my arms,
feel the softness of my bossom.
place your hands on the small of my back,
pull me from righteousness and pleasure retention.
pull me towards your eagerness,
your egrogious pleasure.'


burning and aching the good ache,
yearning and fighting the good fight,
she filled me with desert heat,
she encased me with oasis wet.
for her; an hour of *******,
for her; failed musings and a *** bruise or four.

honey, I'm just down the hall.
let me taste of you,
allow yourself your fill of me.
Honey, only if it do please ya.

If only life were an iPod,
if only we could replay last June
as we replay Miles David.

Sweaty and sticky and white wine drunk.
Finding rocks for our lovers,
eating mushrooms together and I was so scared when you walked in the highway.

It was the only time I raised my voice at you and I'm sorry.

People change, they drift apart
and there is no courtesy of a breakup.
Texts left unresponded, calls unanswered, letters unwritten, their is no quick bandaid rip, no 'I don't think we should see each other anymore.'

There is confusion and anxiety and guilt and selfblame and tears, and I wish I could press replay on last June.

Instead "Kind of Blue" is on repeat and I still cry every time the album finishes and I still miss and love you

Two years ago, almost to the day, I scribbled into my notebook a single line: "When in doubt fall into those old rituals"
Two weeks later I was sober for the first time in eight months.

This morning I put whiskey in my coffee and took a pull from the bottle besides. I catch cold easier when I'm not drinking, my bones shake and rattle, I can hardly read.
If you know me more than most,
you know how desperate not reading is.

When in doubt, fall into those old rituals.
Smoke rising in the diner, two hands with a cigarette each hovering over two respective cups of coffee.
A plate of fries or perhaps an omelet and of course coffee after coffee after coffee, no cream, whiskey from the flask.

Cigarette after cigarette after cigarette.

The newspaper this morning read
"Annual Steamboat Children's March"
My bar won't open till 3.