He is me.
He is in the living room,
crooning his entrance:
"Oh, my darling, oh, my darling,
my darling Clementine.
You are lost and gone forever,
my darling Clementine."
I am him.
I still possess the fixating brown eyes
that have toggled between dreamy and menacing,
becoming an expert on quaaludes like Hunter S. Thompson,
as Russell brings me a glass of vintage red wine.
"It's full of betrayal."
Don't know where to go
or how loud to be,
but living feverishly,
I am amble enough
to kill lunch and lie to the night.