six bottles of rootbeer:
sipping off the foam,
the moment is lost to the
oppressive heat;

i down these six like the poseur alcoholic
we all strive to be when we're ten years
old.

that's where i last found my own
distinctive words before i left
on my own to find you, to discover that i dont know
anything
about being on my own
and that my voice will soon be gone from
trying to speak of every love i've ever lost.

i swill this rootbeer down to the bottom
which is now mostly consistent of the memories
of when we kissed in between sips, and the
backwash byproduct that remains is the last
trace of saliva that touched between our lips
before i became this worthless drunk.

10/27/2004

Posted on 10/28/2004
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams