We don't really talk a lot anymore
No more than a "hey" every few months
But I just caught myself day dreaming of you for 5 minutes straight
I just thought about one of the nights where we were staying up late, drinking Bud Lights and watching The Office
I stepped in the kitchen while you were in the bathroom and you saw me when you came out and wrapped yourself around me just to hold me
I just day dreamed about that for 5 minutes straight
Just that
Just your innocent embrace
Just you holding me in the kitchen because you missed my touch

With every shot of drink
My mind goes back to think

With every thought I think
My heart rises and sinks

With every beat of my heart
I feel distant and apart

With this feeling of despair
My tears roll without care

With every drop of tear
I take another shot of beer

With soothing music in air
Tonight you've been unfair

With you not here
This night grabs my fear

With this drink of beer
My mind rolls back to clear

With memories in my head
I crawl up in my bed

With your picture in my hand
I hope tonight's not my end


©sim

My hands feel cold like ice cubes
They are shaking and awkward
My hands are aching for contact
They are yearning for the touch of your hands
My hands are confused because they don't know what to do when they aren't intertwined with yours
They are incoherent because they now only know what it feels like to hold on to a bottle of liquor

I made a cocktail.
It's 40% tears,
30% despair,
20% regret,
and 9% doubt.
There's a hint of hope somewhere in there also.

And I'm getting drunk tonight.

What do you do when you’re alone
Feel the necessity to indulge in something
A drink or a cigarette
Always blowing away the ****** in swirly smoke
Or downing your business deals in ****
Maybe if it’s your birthday
You’re still alone
Probably because you’re a businessman
You may occasionally take hashish trip
And imagine yourself on a minaret
There are plenty
You could choose the one of the three Pagodas
That resemble the Taipei 101
Or the CN Tower
If you’re looking for something modern
But after your escapade of solitude you need a routine for your return

there is something
about those wooden chairs
at the Jameson's Bar.

the way they consume the
yellow brights, I believe
they could have consumed the
sultry nights,the spilled whisky,
the cheap tips and the unspoken
stories.

it's like a polished reflective
demon,that asks me to sit on it
and begin the satanic act of
dissolution of liver.

the way it does so,
I might have lost a hundred stories
to it in the most painful nights
I saw and swallowed within, with only ice.

but I never regretted.
nor shall ever be,
for they have read my stories,
when no one ever could.

I have read and seen
written and tasted
all the letters
in a cocktail
of words
with the after-taste
of meaning
the effect
of a poem
and the resonance
of a
hangover