Psuedo-sobriety

You tell me you’re better.
“I’ve set down the pipe,
dropped the needles…”
Your words trail off
as you separate the blinds
with your index and middle fingers,
peering outside, in paranoia.
“Straws are only for drinks now,”
you say with a forced laugh.
I return the awkward laugh
with my own.

“It’s been eight days,”
you lie.
I acknowledge with a
half-smile,
“Good.”

Tomorrow it’s twelve days.
Next Saturday,
eighteen.
Last of the month,
forty-three.

Soon you lose track;
your math is wrong.
We don’t point it out,
we want you well.
Then you disappear,
digging through the closet,
looking for paraphernalia.