Puerto Rican *** stained language barrier lips,
too drunk to speak out of tongue,
kissing persuasively the bottle necked boy sipping Jack and Coke from an oblong thermos as this obtuse intoxication
fills my eyes with longing
and my mind with indistinguishable speech.

I flirt with the harsh skin of another tired soul.

Sneaker-clad stupidity,
proving me more infantile,
more volatile,
engrained and pained by drunken nights aloof,
while walking down a –still covered in traffic- highway
harboring Pinot Noir beneath the cover of an
-I haven't seen the sky this shade in months- blue backpack

My white skin sheath hiding underneath,
much like the dark underbelly of a war mongering depression,
As I continue past the street lights ceasing.

Perched,
careless and calloused upon a nameless dock amidst the Charles River still frozen beneath a similar white sheath, to my goosebump laden skin
sleevelessly shivering as I chug the wine because I need to hear the clank of the bottles once they rest restlessly again inside this blue pack,

because I don't want to be the only seemingly hollow vessel,

because silence slices and bleeds thoughts worth fearing,

because the burgundy potable settling equally as ardently from the confines of my –hollow as my heart this time of year- stomach,
isn't helping with warming this buckling body during my 3am wanderings in Boston.

And here,
between paralleled city-scapes,
walls for illiterate poets: vagabonds of the mind,
never escaping in our indecisive natures holding us inside these anguished lines,
like a river frozen but uncrossable,
our words keep us sane...

I long to forget who I am,

and I will not pray, while I am prey, to this.