I comb my drafts for moments when I was real.
A crumb trail back to seconds I couldn’t feel.
I throwback sour liquors and sweet wines, one small glass at a time.
I tell myself the rest can flood the drain if these will just numb the brain.
I wish my life away, churning day dreams.
I wait for the moment when my soul detangles from yours
When I can no longer feel your heart ache in my bones.
I’m afraid
If I can’t feel, you’ll cease to be real.