Here's to Tomorrow

He knows he's had too much
as he turns the bottle upside down
even after the hangover begins its work.
Angry at the world, he lights another cigarette
wishing the tobacco inside was green,
wishing it could dull the ache he feels.
Here's to tomorrow.
Swallow.
Hope his head hurts more than his heart.
Drag.
Frigid air cannot dampen the fire he feels
as he comes to realize
he can't even remember which one brought him to this,
can't remember if he wants the next to save him,
or let him drink alone.
Which organ will fail him first?
Let's take bets, he's doing his best to kill them all.
His schoolwork seems secondary,
after all, the bottle is now.
How much to make him forget?
Not enough, soon the bottle will be
empty as he feels.
Fuck the world.
He lights another.
He hates to sleep,
insomnia saving him from the pain of waking up.
How long since he slept?
How long since he drank?
Too long, drain the bottle.
His friends tell him not to chew tobacco,
that girls don't like it,
but the wad in his cheek keeps them away,
does its job.
And he misses the one who tolerated it.
Or longs for the one who liked it.
Maybe she who kissed him first, before skoal ever did.
They're one and the same now
with his sobriety in serious question,
mister Jack mixing with the tears he's sworn not to shed.
Confusion reigns, sharing its oligarchy with sadness
as he hates himself
and hates them all for judging him.
His eyes close so he can see through the fog
and he sleeps in the street tonight,
if you can call it sleep.
He won't know who he is when he wakes,
thank God for that.