Alcoholic Poetry 37

i. you don't.

love anything.

callous pigeons
carry the touch

from my skin
to yours.

and back
again.

connecting dots
in invisible ink.

determined sheets
collect the tears
of our flesh

in damp portraits
that draw our hearts
in red ink.

remnants of lust.
too content with
our loneliness.

our truth being
just how softly the
pillow meets our
heavy heads

as we sink into
the tomb we say
will be tomorrow.