i wake up drunk
i’m an alcoholic in that way
addicted to the inebriation,
the intoxication
the cocktails sipping sickly sweet in his veins
old fashioned lemon dropping kamikazes
dancing their heated feet
on my tongue when he permits
our lips to meet, to
take greedy pulls across the salted-edge glass of
shared skin
and i love like a husband’s mistress
half-rememberable, too-expendable,
listless, left keeping
an empty barstool company twenty-nine minutes after last call
asking the nauseatingly suggestive bartender what
she must look like must sound like must speak like
to be the one he prefers to keep his secrets for
but his answer is always
“for the pretty lady, one more,”

so i drink down bottle after bottle
to sober myself up

maybe sometime sooner
i will get the hang of this or i will realize
that i cannot keep spreading my confections
so thinly, cannot sprinkle
stars forged in time with the inflections of
my out-of-tune heart strings
across a night that is too big to fill
and still
expect the cities of green thriving in his eyes to
kill their wanderlust lights
for my precisely spilled opalescence,
just long enough to reach up with unheld hands
to gather the dreamscape sands, the quicksilver strands
in the gaps between their fingers
so that they might craft collections
of constellations diagnosed to fit inside their bones
in chemotherapeutic injections
fighting off his malignant lack of connection,
his cold-hearted infection

and i burn out my galaxies with the prickling persistence
of cavities that don’t know they’ll be filled in

usually i settle for stealing street signs
coloring over their letters and studying their lines because
i’ve never had the best sense of direction
and through the cracked glass of my ventricles’
outdated and archaic imperfections
the compass needle keeps spinning itself in
taunting circles of recollections
but i’ve got this idea that maybe
if i twirl fast enough i can catch up with my own indecisiveness,
can take my stillborn adorations via caesarian-section
because raising a hand in weekly AA meetings of
withdrawaling faces and rehab rejections,
all no-ones dependent on someones affections,
only gets me shrugged shoulders
and snarky voices saying
“don’t you have GPS?”

perhaps it’ll occur to me that the rainbowed squares of the Rubik’s cube
stuck up under my ribs might be okay with a few mismatching pairs

but all my conversations end up with those
dreaded questions finding ways, louder than usual these days,
to tread around my unconvincing animosity
forgetting what the cat learned on her date with curiosity,
always wanting to know where she is
or to know who she was
and in truth i could draw up enough maps
to leave volumes,
too heavy textbooks compiling nothing more than the conclusion
that she inhabits a place just out of reach
a fact you gotta learn, gotta know, and there’s no professor stern enough to
teach but regardless they would be carried from class to class
on the prematurely aching backs of
first-lovesick crushing middle schoolers having
heart attacks, not of the right ages to
bother reading anything of the meticulously printed pages
far too caught up in blushing cheeks,
sneaking peeks,
the ends of weeks

but if only they did
and if only i had