Alcoholic Poetry 11

empty paper tubes
stand guard at the edge,
as the moon stretches its jaw
wider until;

bending as you reach in
to feel what's left,

that window doesn't
open anymore, but it
stays closed so well.

those words don't
mean what they did then,
as moist fangs tore
into still warm flesh;

accomodating as it did
to fit your world inside it,

thinking the moments
would eventually reveal
the reasons i'd missed.

we met in our silence
and we never left,
we followed our paths
as they disected;

when you'd close your eyes
i'd look for what i'd
not been able to find in them.

i never found it,
but sometimes i still look.