Rhythm is a paperweight for my soul.
Timing is another part to the whole
of my being and existence.

Buoyant troubles are lifted by bottles,
floating atop the suds and bubbles
that I've been consuming.

Feathers fall from wings long spent
flapping, trying to pay for rent
seventeen days late.

Memory-foam-flesh coated bones
recalls touch even while alone,
and then it's gone.

Like clockwork, I'm habitually inclined
to turn up time and **** my mind.

But they're all just paltry substitutes
for the you that I'm spitefully addicted to.