I could be drunk anywhere on this earth—you could be at a far-off remoteness or your mouth hovering over my pretty mandible. I cannot tell anymore if the stain belongs to malbec or menstrual blood—a subtle brown spatter. when the liquor hits, I send pictures of my cat to you—it’s harmless, isn’t it? easier to forgive post-weekend, a small proof that I am stable at least, maybe capable of jubilation, that I can manage myself, can manage to cherish another mortal being
