Drunk.

It’s 2am and I am drunk. And all I can think about is you and me. Every time I shut my f*****g eyes. You’re there. And I thought it would stop eventually. I don’t think about you when I’m sober. But every time a glass touches my lips. You’re there again like you never left. Fragments of laughter. Of tears. Of anger. Promises. So many f*****g promises. And plans. Our life was meant to be different. We were meant to do so much. We were meant to have that house with the marble floors. The dog. The children. Those plans were meaningless. But meaningful in the moment. But how did we end up here. So many questions. I can’t even say your name. It haunts me. It breaks me. I’m hollow and alone. But we were meant to be.
Weren’t we babe?

Reviews

[R.E. Ray]

“Weren't we babe?”... a question that echoes long after reading this poem. It’s a shred of hope, shrouded in disbelief. “WTF” is maybe relatable, too.

Regardless our age, we have these periods or moments. You capture so well the emotional wreckage, the disbelief, the wanting for a better ending. Only someone who has had this experience can write a poem like this.

[Mr. D]

It's not the focus of this writing, I know, but drowning your sorrows in alcohol doesn't ever change anything. If anything, it only creates another potentially harmful and oftentimes deadly problem. There are other, better ways to deal with sorrow than trying to numb it with drugs and drink.

Like you, someone made the same promises to me one time. They said they'd never leave. They've been gone for six years or longer. Moral of the story: don't trust people. Don't believe anything they say.

Plans, from the moment they're created until the moment they're to be executed, change. Our world changes in microseconds. Making plans is, by and large, rather pointless. Doesn't stop us from making them, though, does it?