I got drunk on hipster moonshine,
probably made by Jack Daniels,
and sealed in a mason jar
for the affect of old.
I, too, had this affect,
but it was real,
and I was tired;
tired of traveling,
tired of trying to be charming.
Gabe came home,
his home, I put on my shirt,
as not to be a creepy house guest.
This is not the first time
I have escaped to Gabe's world.
There was that summer in Long Island,
after I burned bridges in Manhattan.
I stayed at his place and wrote,
and worked at a punk bar
in Lindenhurst.
Gabe looks good.
He is off the yak,
his hair is long,
and the only word I have
to describe his physique
is buff.