I can't drink a Miller without the taste
of a backyard, bonfire
raising and your name
only catching speed
in my throat before I gasp
too many, too late confessions. I can't
let the liquid rest with me,
just before I swallow,
or else I'll drown in reminiscing.
So I gulp.
I ferment my own mind and I punish
bottle after bottle even though
every breath after just reminds me
of inhaling your own
when we'd wind ourselves back up
after a drunken escapade
in your bed after everyone else
went to sleep and our dreams
had no chance of catching up to us. I can't
think of you too long
unless I balance on distance
and YOU'RE NEVER COMING BACK!
That's it. I can't
decide whether I'm happy that you've grasped
something so real and sturdy
after all the times I've played the crutch,
or if I hate you,
still, for leaving me by the fingertips,
dangling on a prayer for your safety,
basking in the light of your brilliance,
only to find myself here
in my shower
with a Miller
and an old country song on the radio.