One day closer to snow,
and one hour short is the day.
A game of dive bar hop scotch means never skipping a chance to double dutch a double scotch, three fingers short of a Tom Waits ballad.
Whiskey makes me beautiful,
at least that's what I tell myself when I'm touching my face against the bar bathroom mirror, speckled with has-been band decals and inscribed with dime store lipstick poetry.
Last call incense lingers in the air.
One pour further from boredom.
One pour closer to divinity.
I own no watch, so I watch the time pass as my cigarette packet diminishes.
Four cigs left: clearly, it's 3:00 A.M.
Trouble is, 20 more reasons to stay awake are just a deft discarding of plastic and foil away.
I just need to find the pocket they're in.
Where did I leave them?
Who's jacket is this?
Brilliant. I literally feel like I am there with you through this whole night. And it helps with the pain of missing you.
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