Who you hookin' on the end of that line? With that half-smile as in-tact as the day you discovered..
Softer flesh than you had bothered to study for yourself, though you enjoy the smell of the hair more than you enjoy the smell of food, waiting on a plate in front of you. And you don't want what's as obtainable as waiting for such a relief; from hunger and other such things... Like grieving the act of deciding against breakfast with a beer in your hand and the sensation of vomit yielding in your throat.
      Still choking out excuses. It's not like I don't think I don't drink too much, it's not like I don't know... I'm impaired, and let it be. I can see clearer without glasses but with substances in pockets hidden from untreated eyes.
      I can't say whether or not it's considered wise to stuff you're money in your mattress. I sleep atop an invisible gun, becoming more serious in intoxicated laughter. It's nothing to smoke-laced smartass remarks, but steep in dreams, I'll make you dead to me. Shots always firing, yet you never bleed.. it's just whispers lost in wars, and winds. All dreams of such, such a faint distraction from phones ringing and conversations with reactions you hadn't expected... It's a story heard before.