We sat, on the edge of the bed, looking up, it might have been a mountain. A beer separated us. Mine to drink, his to wait. I took a swig.

“Baby” he called. He is waiting at the summit. I search for a lighter. Need a smoke before the climb. I’m done now, no cancer, just working on the inhale, the devil is within.

Words become ghosts, there is a silence that descends. But he breathes, and is real, and is not so absent. There is wait for which I’m not really there. I snuggle up with my beer.

Drink, my son, drink. Every golden moment is piss I shoot down a drain. Drink, you bastard, drink. There, in the tilt of a can, in the near empty I’m sure to replace, is the tempo of my life. Drink. Drink. Drink.

I crack open another beer. The sky thunders. Someone above is watching, and is sad I should say this. Her tears fall as rain. She flashes white in the night sky and rumbles distantly thereafter. She pokes and prods me with the hereafter. She dims the lights, stresses the electricity, makes distant rumbles and makes fall the water. She wishes to wash away this morose, moribund, malignant excuse for living. I’m receptive but hidden by the beers within.

Drink. Drink. Drink. So it blocks real accountability. So it makes excuses seem real. So it does diminish realty. Let everything be a charismatic fantasy. Drink, and spin, and blur. To the top I fall down, to the bottom I do linger. Awaiting my punishment, awaiting my end. Pour another, I’ll meet you there.

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