it was always the next drink

if i

bend to a bottle

of Canadian Club

Whiskey,

opened,

close my eyes and inhale,

i think of him,

his

cheery breath upon

my pale

cheeks,

i feel the bristle of

his unshaven

face,

tucking us into bed,

the stale after shave

still

clinging to his skin.

i hear the joy in his

voice

as he says goodnight,

but it was always the next

drink

that he poured when

he went

back downstairs,

the one too many,

that could make things

worse.