Whiskey Rod
The stagnate scent. these cigarettes
they cling to the senses
like stale perfume
like unlaundered laundry does
in piles from the corners of our bedroom.
thick lamp lit veil
consumes the room
nightfall, the wall,
resurrected.
a blanket upon blankets
a lingering reminder of those who had consumed
the cigarettes the alcohol the empty bottle
theres no longer enough for the two of us
The flex on my lips the exhale
The all but forgotten flavor
of blunt burnt bleached paper, and spit, and tobacco
that curtain puddled upon my lungs like the stains on my teeth
like rumpled bedsheets and bruises
comforting
and presumably abandoned.
the cigarettes, the bottle, the film on the shot glass, that flask he hid his half in
his second half. as I might. as he does. as he thinks I don’t notice.
That bottle the ring on the counter those far too focused pupils
the sobriety
it lingers too. the elephant in the room.
Progress.
a shoulder cold, rolled over in bed or not in bed
The glasses, the scent, the absorbency of floor boards in older houses
the flavor of yesterday
the thickness the focus the lack of eye contact
the lightning lighting the dimly lit windows
the cigarettes. the bottle. the blankets.
the walking outside with; this
lightning rod
cradled graciously over my head
like an offering to God.