If vodka was red

He wears the red-rimmed eyes of grief
lips duct taped by a sadness so profound
its only response is silence so loud
it screams in its non-voice
a sound only the melancholy-seekers can see

We walk with the weight of ghosts
on our shoulders
all purple and blue bruised on the inside
beneath our sallow skin
tinged with the yellow of too many vodka baths
and heaving mornings
that smell of bile and blood

I will not forget the film reel my mind’s blocked out
taxi ranks and green shoes in a rose garden
whiny girls and slurred promises
not to give away my wine on your shoes

He will not remember the text messages
that make no sense, all vowels and consonants  
in disjointed order
that speak the things he can’t breathe into words
when the clarity of his mind crushes all thoughts
into blinding, blinded emotions
that no vocabulary can fill

Crowned with nails and cloaked with scars
we drunkenly nail ourselves to the wall
like the self-destruction of Jesus
without the prophecy of rebirth
yet still hoping that we’ll be resurrected
between the dust motes and light
that cut through the blinds
on another day that never ends

© Indie Adams 2014