It is exactly 2:03 am
And I believe to be drunk.
Quite frankly, it is freeing.
Sitting up, talking to my depression,
Confronting my frustrations,
Although it is different seeing her reflection in my shadow.
Yet, it is freeing.
I wonder if she feels as uncomfortably trapped as me.
As if she’s the puppet and every existing moment is the puppeteer.
Could she see the
Tireless stream of tears poured out in vain
Could she notice it is pain?
Could she hear the words I utter, as they resonate into
an eco alike the one in a teacup
when it has many other sounds to send?
Could she feel my strains pulling me the opposite way?
Could she smell the scent of Pinot Grigio as it reeks from my pores for the 20th day?
Could she taste the saltiness of my stream of tears confused by the rain?
It is exactly 2:08 am
And I believe to be drunk.
12.23.19