I don’t remember

the whiskey rage

that propelled me to slosh

my drink and yell

“Fuck you”

to anyone who would listen.

 

But, they didn’t listen.

Instead, they just shook

their heads, looking at me

through the plexi-glass that separated

me from the pill bottle

that whispered “take another”

in a milky voice.

I spilled my drink.

 

I looked over at you,

learing at me,

and I wanted to kiss you

but I couldn’t move,

couldn’t lift my hands

to scratch your face.

It wasn’t supposed

to be sloppy or  awkward.

 

You inserted

yourself

into my life.

The needle you kept so close

to you dulled with time, and my fingers

smelled like menthol cigarettes.