nine
empty cans
of old stlyle
and one empty flask
of jameson
surround me,
calling for my surrender.
tonight,
i only drank
most of them,
and for some reason
i can't recall
which empty
i fell into.
i cannot even find
a fort.
right now,
it's just me
and a bottle of
tito's,
sizing the measurements
of eachothers stiches.
we draw.
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