and you were never better.
(I could write about you for days.)
and I drank you in, like honey rum.
you were never a 'throw it back'
kind of guy. all the dirty realism
make it so fucking easy to be:
under you, all. night. long.
and it was never about fixing
the broken things. or being something
were not. baby, lets go off like
carbon bombs at 4:00am. just when the light
starts piquing in through your
sheet-staple-gunned-to-the-wall curtains.

baby, your eyes turn blue at night.