I know this hurt's geography. Ache that's owned by chosen void. I wish I was, I wish I were more poignant than grammarians and rhetoricians fumbling. His drunken state, a wallowing where candor is a bug to squash crawling up a hapless leg. Anger is a grid to walk and mirrors are a narrow ledge.
Bottles roll from under seats.
They own his heart, his soul, his pulse. Loving's feckless entity can't buy it back, cannot return a broken limb to standing tree without some dose of willingness. He fumbles down the unlit hall. Hands can't find a simple light switch on the wall. I've been inside that submarine where pounding cold is pressing in, where migraines fill a coffee cup, where tongues run fingers over flaws, measuring a rotted tooth.