The bottle is cold.
Like the frost that covers a
windshield on a cold, crisp,
white December morning.
1
I take one sip from the bottle I so desperately
grasp to, like he grasped the gun
so hard it left bruises
on the day he ended
his own life.
2
Another sip goes down.
It tastes like water,
but burns like fire as it goes down
my throat.
The bottle chills my hands
to the point of my fingers feeling as if
they'd fall off my hands.
3
The poison goes down so harshly.
Yet, the words roll off my tongue, so smoothly,
without any thought to hold them back.
There's a throbbing in my head
but it reminds me of the way your heartbeat felt
when I had my head
on your chest.
I'll miss that.

I've forgotten how many sips I've had now,
5,6, or maybe 10?
I'm trying hard to wash away
the bitter memory of you
with a bitter poison
and the feelings
match up well.

0
The pain of the hangover
doesn't compare to the pain you left behind.
I wish I could fix both.