What she said to me sitting at that bar
sipping God's own overpriced whiskey
was the truest thing any one has ever
managed to tell me about myself.

And the drive up to town after
the ribbon of freeway stretching
on into forever and the radio full
of Bukowski's guts blaring with
her feet on my dashboard.

That room with wine colored
walls and a taste reminiscent
of some novel I know I've
read somewhere, somewhen.

Tiny bed I'm constantly trying
to not fall out of sweetly
forcing me closer to her
in the early morning grey.

Something unspoken and
something unseen but somehow
un-needing to be clarified
for once living on feeling
only what there is now.