Lost on the Corner of North and Po

I walked that night,
wishing I could pour apologies
in the form of vodka and orange juice.
But tormented by my faults,
I feared last call was over.

Now I wear memories like dust,
clinging complacently
on my worn shoulders
amidst our weary travels.
And I was content with that;
as content as a fragile, old man
reading his morning paper.

We planned on retiring
in the midst of rural Alabama,
spending lazy nights meditating
to the music of the crickets,
flicking lit cigarettes off
the dishevelled porch
and into the darkened countryside.

As the whiskey bottle rocked us to sleep
we dreamt of escaping air bound
planes on a golden sunset,
knowing that in the moment
the breeze captured us
we would own the sky.
And we would own the sky,
he and I.

I can still taste the sweet cream
of Bailey’s nectar on my tongue
from the midnight coffee
that stained my teeth
champagne yellow.

As he filled my glass over the brim,
brown liquid trickled in between
the crack of the wooden table
and kept our dearest secrets company
as we poured them out, too.

I admit I long for the moments
we would laugh together;
our faces aching from
undying smiles,
turning our facades
a radiant red.

We pranced half-sober
through the vacant city
like two uncoordinated nutcrackers
in a Disney-On-Ice performance.

But now, I find myself
stumbling along these familiar,
desolate streets on my own.

 As I cross over onto the corner
of North and Po,
my stumble turns to a sprint.
I hear nothing over the sound of
my breath murmuring regret
into his abandoned window.

And with that
he was gone,
leaving me running
like a whisper
into the night’s ear.