Alcoholic Poetry 15

there's a pillow
in her breath just
before she begins
to speak;

to soften,
to cushion,
to smother
the grief.

there's a struggling
streetlight in her
words, that flickers
off and on;

biting at the
darkness, constantly
warding off its
relentless attack.

and she knows she
shouldn't be alone,
but this is what
she must be.