and Zach lets me down with drugs,
just as I think and sink
into another her,
where rivers Tweet at me.
what the hell is this wine?
it is time, my friend,
says the morning,
like my Uncle Linda
with a mustache of regret.
this is where we turn
into werewolves
to make ourselves feel
good about gambling our souls
and giving up our beds.
my crying eyes
still know last night
was the last night,
but their puffiness
is the only evidence
that we existed
and it was good.