tribu blue

face to face with strangers
the night opens
with a pitcher of blue liquid and gin
and we match it with cigarettes
perhaps, in our attempt to belch out
the bitter taste of his skin

the second pitcher came
as i talked about long letters
and his short distant responses--
they relate to the coldness.
oh, how remembering
can bridge the souls of those forgotten.

the third pitcher poured
out her soul
slithering out her mouth
is apathy
concretized in his form.

the fourth pitcher spills out
memory:
his last words
his last kiss
his last touch.

down to our last glass
before the night closes in on us
we swallow down the very last
ounce of his being.

inebriated by memory
we suddenly head out to the sink
to finally puke him out of our lives
for him to join
the filthy side of forgetfulness
as we once did

now we lean against each other
the three of us
no longer strangers
and for the last time we raise a toast
for our new found tie.

(the first time with reg and red)