Alcohol Seas and Opiate Skies
Under the Alcohol seas and opiate skies,
the man fell asleep last night. He didn’t know
I was watching to see if he breathes.
There’s a curl on his forehead he hates,
I skim it lightly to feel for warmth.
Later, I wake to the air silent and chill
I nudge him and ask,
“Are you alive?”
He gasps, wheezes, and mumbles something in his sleep.
He’s drifting away from me and out to his sea.
I’d dive into the wrack of his brain,
tangling myself in what’s left of him,
Just to say,
“Swim parallel to me.”
But he’s carried out to sea in a filmy haze,
never remembering the shore or the breeze
and the crabs dine on what’s left of him and me.
First published in Rue Scribe