Third person, fourth person, none person…
Like the clouds changing from dog to tornado and ripping away the child from your arms.
Speak freely of the liquor you ingested to tell you the truth of all things out side of yourself.
I looked at you today and you looked ill for a man of 40.
Eyes yellow. Burnt yellow like the stains on your finger tips from endless tobacco burn.
I wondered if you knew, that we know, you are an alcoholic.
I know you fear the inevitable grave or closet.
But I am here to free you.
Step out into this air I call, you.
I call it you because all air is you.
All air is all things.
So simply complicated at the moment that you must drink to take it in.
If you are wanting to die, and you will, eventually, but if you are wanting to die from alcoholism then you are on your way.
You are allowed to choose to die this way.I will support you in all you choose.
I support you in all you have no control over.
I support you even though you remind me of my father. Do you stick your dick in everything too? . . .I care not.
I judge not.
I only live to witness and to comfort the soul inside the ailed body.
I am here for you.
I am here for your yellow eyes and your nicotine stained hands and lips.
I am here for you while you sit in the basement alone hating everything about yourself, wishing something would change, knowing it is you but wishing it weren’t.
I sit with you and I let you put your head on my shoulder. shhhhh, breathe. shhhhh, take your drink. or . . . don’t.
Either way I am here .
Only the eyes.
Only the story.
Only the poem.
Only the forgotten daughter.
Nothing less. . . Just witness.