I remember them well, those blurred nights of drink
although they were, too often, blank the next day.
How the flowing wine slowed time down to a trickle,
the sharp edges of reality’s pain
became curved and – almost – comfortable.
Yes, I remember them well, those nights
when the gutter was merely a place to rest
and there was no harm in stumbling home, barely conscious.
I remember the joy in getting home alone,
not on the arm of some stranger,
waking up the next morning in a panic
without clear memories of what had been done,
or hadn’t been – as the case may be.
Ah, I remember it well, the taste of silky wine as sanity departed
and the taste of shame the very next day.
No, it was never quite that bad for me, but I did on occasion drink more than I should have. This was inspired by a blurry photo posted by Poets United for the Poetry Pantry #196, where I’ve also entered this. Hope you enjoyed, and please drink with moderation.