Moon soaked and heavy head

I walk down a lit street and talk to the street lights

overhead.

I have set my soul ablaze

with some whiskey

that my dad would have said

to drink more of

mom would have said that

it is risky.

My legs —

they are old and they crack

and

my mind is swollen with the memory

of you.

“why did you do it, dad?” I stumble

“Why did you leave?” I grimace with each step

“My big eyes and

my fucking small hands — and you still left.” I run.

The street lights say

that my words are words that they can stand, and

I speak to them nighly.