Esme Writes.

the balancing act of a cellphone
above the yawning mouth
of a toilet bowl
begging for a solemn splash
and the stream of slurred curse
words to follow.

the stumble from the leaning
oblique doorways into night
air so cool so chill so
frighteningly aloof to
our tumbling and erratic
steps

the good ideas at the time
the bad decisions in the morning
it scrape your knee and cut
the palms of your hand move
the riding on pegs at 4 am

bottle of popov
bottle of makers
bottle of boones farm
bottle of goddamn anything you
could get your hands on
at that last party you made it to
where you didn’t give a fuck
if they got mad
when you put on what you wanted to
dance to
or if they’d miss those last few
half mangled fifths
shoved deep into purses
next to bolt cutters
and 40s
and spray paint

the morning so tentative
so as not to roust
strung out states from
grass soaked in sweat
or dew
and alcohol
and words
and grease
and spit

the beds that seem as endless
as the horizons of the sea

the final trip into waves
where
ever

to anchor.