throw him a curveball
Late at night
when streetlights silhouette the inebriated
I sit alone in my living room
under my favorite blanket
riding cotton waves with flattened palms
like grease traversing a rose petal.
Sure, sometimes it's lonely
sometimes it's sickening
and sometimes it's just another night alone.
But every now and then
I hurl the blanket to the floor
pop open a bottle of wine
and hunch over a legal pad
clutching a pen that secretes blood.
Blood as black as ink.