21, 22

21 Feb 2020

I sit on the porch and survey my surroundings

Houses still asleep in the hour of dawn

The pale pink light of the sun heralds the new day

The bottle in my hand, a remnant of last night

Seems heavier, lighter, altogether less pleasant

The buzz is gone, but the bottle is still here, empty

21, almost 22, already a mess, like a never quite forgiven father

Turning to vice to feel, the dull nothing already reigniting

Nothing is wrong, this abnormal is now normal

I sit on the porch, surveying my surroundings

21, almost 22, already a mess