The fly by…day fourteen.

The old tattered shoebox lives under my bed. Sometimes I lie above staring at the ceiling then slowly slip my hand down along the cold metal frame brave enough to graze the edge of the flimsy lid with my fingers before retracting them to safety. Once a year or so I dig out your favorite Ameri-Corps chapstick stained  t-shirt, a victim of my unfortunate laundry skills you left behind, slip it on, open the box to feel the weight of your words in my hands. I read everything you ever wrote to me. Twice.

 

You’re my water
You’re my wine
You’re my whiskey
From time to time

You’re the hunger
On my bones
All the nights
I sleep alone

Sweet intoxication
When your words
Wash over me

Whether or not
Your lips move
You speak to me

Like an ocean
Without waves
You’re the movement
That I crave

And in that motion
I long to drown
And be lost not to be found
You’re my water
You’re my wine
You’re my whiskey
From time to time

Drunkard’s Prayer

Over The Rhine.

 

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