how many bottles I went through, that winter, and spring,
into the summer.
And probably the fall.
Each glass, I hoped, would bring you out and leave me free from memories and wishes not realized.
the dark swirl, the hazy feelings, the deep mornings, interrupted by light, and a need to keep moving,
to keep tapping it out, through the trees
with sweat trickling down my arms
because I could run it away for a time.
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