Chance

I write because I drink too much and don't want to go to sleep. Exchanging awkward glances with common sense. Going where I do on the off chance that I'll want to be there. There's so little else.

It's a watch on a wrist. Trying to tick. Hurrying toward. It's the way you looked before I let you know how much it meant. Carefree and ready to be. What we wanted.

It's yesterday in its purest sense. The way the world shifts to accommodate listless hearts.

We were drugged. By need and by narcotics. We were so confounded by what we wanted.

There's no one to blame. But I still want.

A reason.

An excuse.

A way to prove all that isn't real now once was.