I begin the process in a state of denial,
one where vodka tastes more like juice than hard liquor.
When I drink, it goes down like water.
I long for the taste of amnesia.

My habit is a lot like my heartbreak: hidden.
I am sneaking shots of gin while wearing your shirt to bed;
leftover whiskey breath and the letter you wrote me is in my hands.
Two bottles sit empty on my nightstand.

Near ocean tides, I parade around a bonfire, smiling at strangers.
The clink of beer bottles blend with misfits' laughter.
A green-haired girl points out Orion's belt.
I chase the longing to tell you with a shot.

I try to put the bottle down, but
I cannot.
When my hand is empty, it aches for yours and
my head throbs as your voice invades my mind. 

I drink so much the stars spin new stories.
I slur every name except yours.
I do not leave time between sips for it to escape.

I wonder if my taste for liquor comes from you;
If the drinking games we used to play are
what inspires the drinking games I play alone.

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