no, i am fine
in this whirlwind of thoughts
on this street to hell
i am not at all uneasy
slipping constantly through tight passages
(my eyes do not flutter)
the old red bricks
stand behind us
like kodachrome photographs
we sit on my old porch
both feet sunk in deeply like buoys
in two inches of spring dampness
i take a reluctant drag off my cigarette
and grimace like a cowboy
vomit battling half way up my throat
my ears feel deaf and muffled
you curse me like an Eve
carelessly dabbling at the wrong tree
your words slap me left and right
and trust me i can tell
you don't know where to place your hands
i stare at you, baffled
my mouth droops
seemingly comprehending
and i remember
you said the sting i felt in my gut
everytime our pupils embraced
would vanish
unless
my nights didn't marry the idea
of seperating medication from
the wine cellar
and i didn't quit
imagining piss pink conversations
between you and i
Bronze trophy winner
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