Everything you wanted, It was everything.


It was the curvature of a shoulder blade,
the phosphor of a new drunkenness,
the insomnia of a metropolis.

I never slept twice with the same day
and life was only life when at night
a halo appeared from my glass.

Some June morning and I reflect over a stale
breakfast: 
I hung around so many people,
traded so much sunlight for a spark
of eternity 

and look at me now:
in this pale light with my dirty nails
and cotton clouded head.

If only I had believed less in my thirst.
Cared less about the antidote
for my carefully studied death.