This is a shock. I kept pouring you see, and when those subtle moments were right you would rest your arm or your hand on me. I made your drinks. We laughed. 

 

It was a dollar a cigarette. One whole U S of A dollar. I bought ten. An expensive pack. Don’t forget that bottle. I won’t say the price. Canadian whiskey. I drank a lot and maybe got my money’s worth. Now this is a relapse. Now this is me falling back down. And I have the bruises to prove it. You gave them to me. I feel them now. Sore. Throbbing. Tender. Erect. Or is that something else. 

 

I drove. Drunk but I didn’t let anyone know. This is that righteous flashback. It’s real. I’ll have to remind that to myself. Drunk and rough and I taste the tear in my lip and my shoulder hurts. My chest too. Those bites are familiar. They take me back. Young and dumb. God damn this is a night. 

 

We won’t talk about it. I know that. And now I’ll be alone like I often am and I’m going to think about it all over again. It’s a relapse. A reprise. And it’s beautiful and it hurts and I love it.