I’m sitting here at my desk,
Trying to figure out in which style I’d write this prose, poem.
And I suppose you’d suppose I’d write something usual,
But I’d belt out twisted lines if it would mean I wouldn’t be like them, him.
But what’s a rhyme anyway? Forget about it.
I’d sit in my bed if I wasn’t so gone right now,
And I’d think about you thinking about me thinking about what I couldn’t do.
Since when have I spent a night away from a hardwood floor?
I saw that green, maybe brown sea, I can’t remember, from my backseat.
I saw that water freeze over and the cold steam stream across your cheeks.
What a beautiful taste. Saline was never for me.
Lay down my $14.76 for a bottle of Black Velvet,
And I fully expect to wake up in my best friend’s sister’s bed,
Whiskey on my breath.
At least my mother raised a gentleman, but that’s irrelevant.
Clutching to the cusp of grey, watching that last drop of color drive away,
My girl's gone now and it’s just me and the wilting flower on my desk.
Some cheap pens.
And my books.
And of course, a whiskey and coke.
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