In my drunken wooze I miss you.
A couple of whiskeys and a few beers digesting,
providing me with exalted delirium.
Your face would be distorted by my hazed eyes
but when closed,
crisp and beautiful.
The smile is all mine.
And the eyes,
those fucking eyes see and know me.
Whether the whiskey or sentimental thought,
I am warm.
It’s brief.
A part of me knows this.
An even smaller part knows the nature of nostalgia.
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