The Waiting

The Waiting

The pain rips through me,

my arms,

my chest,

my head.

It’s the addiction

I’m wallowing in.

Tasting rotted fruit

while the radio screams

that new song by

Silversun Pickups.

And I wonder how the hell

I’m going to make another night.

Ringing my hands,

soaking my face

in champagne tinted

luke-warm rosewater.

Yet I can hardly

breath,

and the pusher

has a hand

past my lungs.

Looking for the piece of me lost

in a hole too large to fill;

only numbed by poppies 

and a stolen prescription pad.

It’s my loss after all;

trading fresh air

for the bottle and the pill.

Putting aside life,

while I sit on the moon.