He was drunk on her laugh, the moonlight, and the rum.
Maybe it\'s the girls who drink whiskey that tell good stories.
A few more drinks and the world was hers.
She wore the whiskey like a loaded gun.
He listened...carefully.
Another got lit.
Drugs were this pretty girl with a cursing sly smile beckoning me with her finger for a slow soft kiss.
There\'s the ashtray with a good story and makes the smoke taste better.
That\'s when you realize depression is being color blind and you\'re there for constantly being told how colorful this world is.
Love could might as well be labeled poison
And yet we\'d drink it anyway.
And there,
I hope to arrive at my death
late, in love, and just a little drunk.