“I love your color, are you an artist?”
“Thanks! I do some poetry.”
“Will you recite a poem for me?”
“Ok…sure. Ready?”
“Yeah.”
“The question still lingers. My breath smells of rye and spearmint. Street cars ride alone, a sobering experience. Can’t seem to wake up early enough. Regrets are revisited. The humidity smacks me in the face. Sweat greets me like an old friend. My legs seem to know where to go, but the rest of me is lost in the haze. I crave alcohol. I crave normal. I have red wine. The days have been behind me and well ahead. The only time I get lost is when I’m afraid. This so happens to always happen after midnight. A time when those who can see through you see quite clearly. And I still haven’t had enough to drink.”