I tried to pour all the girls I ever cared about into a blushing bottle of whiskey, into a neat little glass with melting ice, careful not to spill them on the unswept floor.
I tried to tell the bartender that I’d like my memories on the rocks, nothing to dilute the nights I threw her dress on the kitchen table where it snaked to the ground like a slinky lost in a lovestruck coil.
I tried to liquidize those long winter drives with the girl asleep in the passenger seat, the defroster cutting trails through the fog collecting on the glass, listening to her rising and falling breath and counting the stars that found a home there.
I tried to give myself another shot of wind wild days with her in my morning bed, my t-shirt caressing her shoulders, her naked body — the look I’d paint a million times over if my fingers coursed with artistic blood.
I tried to savor those nights when she tossed looks at me like embers meant to burn love’s tattoo into my skin, with the furnace tumbling us into a heat wave, the sweat morphing us into an adult tangle ending in upturned toes and legs over the counter, under the burnt out light bulbs, spilling across the bed, leaving ruffled indentations on the sheets while I ravaged her hair into a mess that fell into my eyes, onto my cheeks and over the love I exposed for this girl who kept my smile in a bonfire locket that couldn’t possibly smoulder or unclasp.
I tried to do all those things so I could call myself a clever alcoholic.