I pour a cold one down my throat To subdue the rage, or perhaps anxiety Underlying and insidious. Though more likely to swallow, with it Regret. The small things, and the large.
I suppose it does not really matter, Regarding to relevancy. But I drink, I write and then I reminisce. The past, her lips, and the discussions. Yet, never quite feeling able enough To be. Vulnerability, it escapes me.
And as one memory passes onto another, Never does it become anything less Than meaningful. Each moment Shining as a star to define the Indefiniteness which both calls to me, And more accurately eludes all That I wish to be.