Sad Labels:
alcohol
,
lovers
,
retrospect
So, he said, What of the metaphors you had for me last night? Where are your buckets now? How many of those holes are mine? Do you talk like you write? Or do you write like you talk? Where does the poetry stop and you begin?
It's not like I know what I'm saying. When the words spill through the needle. It's just a tiny prick and then what needs out gets it. And whatever wants in has an entrance.
It's not like we were anything other than one disaster after another. It's not the chaos that's bad. It's after. Trying to clean it up.
I said, maybe, someday. When we're used to being this sober.