Alcoholic Poetry 5

he talks like the moon
and moves like the ocean;
vascilating between here and gone
with no intention of ever choosing.

the words smear across
half turned pages,
but it only matters
what they haven't said.

warm is the memory still
as loneliness stokes the flame,
generous is the empty heart
as it longs for something to fill.

maybe it's never over,
or maybe there are no beginnings;
only lies we tell eachother,
the kind we can't tell ourselves.