Croce’s bottle

sour wafts from the tip of your lips
you’ve been drinking since 5 43 am
vodka on my stretched out thermals
me drinking for more than a dozen days
i like the thunderstorm in your eyes
you caress the purple around my mouth
with gentle butterfly kisses
closed doors closed hearts
are never good you said
as i laughed at your motions of a saint
secretly fumbling with each others hurts
not from my lovers knuckles or the baseball bat scars from your soon to be ex wife
mere hurts and trepidations from yesteryears gone by
sloppily we kiss
hungrily you part me open
mounting what’s left of me
slightly the moon strikes
your sleeping face
as i hide mine between your shoulder blades
my thoughts drift into Croce’s bottle just for this night

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