it’s lips poured spirits and wine - fresh squeezed- into my hands, into my system. And it walks behind me sober. Watching my slurring stumbles whilst an old sense of strength from inside me poured from my mouth, spilling on concrete.
my legs fail me and I fall a trance. Into it’s arms. But only for a sweet second - and now I’m smothered lying in stone cold slate, it’s so nippy, the cold. and it’s shadow blocks the streetlight floating above me. Wait; streetlight is glaring dim orange again now that it has dispersed away, down the pathway. With open arms, it’s searching for a sober.
an old one, August 2018 Who ism “it”?, you decide.