Friday 6/30/2017 10:56:00 PM

We're not there yet. Not even close. We might never be.

 We're human. The only measure is in the echo from the hollow in our heads.

 He shifts in his position. Exhausted of all his interest.

 It sways. Opportunity is a pendulum. I'm not prepared to fight for anything.

 Intimacy is an anvil. It tries to drown us. It usually succeeds.

 We like to say how much we love each other. And maybe, sometimes, we even do. But it's all just speculation and wishful thinking. None of it's real.

Our flesh is a storybook. Full of monsters, paupers, maidens and heroes. And happy endings are perilous and expensive.

 We're all liars. We have to be to survive.

 It blisters and scorches. Because chemistry is dangerous.

 It wears us. In smudges and grins. the sour of expectation. Surreptitiously destroying us.

 We're not there. We were never even close. We're still here. Just like we've always been. Noses pressed to the glass. Searching for a way inside.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.