When I close my eyes, the clarity is blinding.
We're past all comfortable reference points, ones we lived so hard to discover.
Two tall boys, empty as discarded beer bottles.
The want that remains is salt on open flesh, unfashionably gaping.
What created the hangover which we have accepted to wake with;
Both, with hands that continue vain attempts at rubbing faulted feelings away?
I cannot say.
I'm too far away.