Her lip stick stained everything,
my only drinking glass
my only toothbrush.

My  only set of sheets
sat rumpled and stained.  ,
My last joint sat marked
with that wicked red
along the edge of the
chipped amber ashtray.

My dry lips held the
blood of her love.
I savored the rusty
taste of her as the need to
write became the
whole of me.

I approached the trusty Number2
with caution.
I carefully
opened the dog eared
spiral notebook she had
brought to me
a life time ago.

Found a blank page between two
emotionally driven poems.
I drained the last of the
***** as I felt the gift
slowly awaken somewhere
in that darkness
deep within me.

The ***** burn
ripped down my insides and
lit that glow that's slowly
killing me.
That sense of dread
and failure took hold.

The guilt I've had
comes with every word
never written.
Every promise never held.
Every thought never shared
and every blood stained
memory I've been
forced to live through.