The last 3 letters of the spring

The idea of a headache
more like getting drunk 
in a packed, heartbreakingly smelling bar
A universal truth claiming
when your soul cracks open, it reeks of cheap sex and chlorine 
from all that cleaning I’ve been drowning myself in: high functioning depression 
of eastern european women; beautiful vision

Toying with a random bartender
as if he were a mouse I took hostage under my wicked claws 
You like watching me flirt with strangers
clenching your fists under the table
to prove how manly you are: you don't want me, you wanna be me; gorgeous view

Knowing perfectly well, I’ll write something about this very moment later
a couple of lines
saying
the idea of being the last one sober
The smell of eternity dying slowly in your arms, holy
no more than a death unknown to cold-blooded creatures; that’s us

Two cowards silently giving up 
meeting each month in crowded bars, reliving surrender until they stop pretending 
that
this 
isn’t love.