Blues

i wrote these blues
same as you wrote yours
wrote them nestled in the hole we dug
or that one what she tore when she left
same as your woman,
gone.

and I cuddled that bottle
just like i dreamed you would
trying to forget me for even one goddamned minute
or to drown at the bottom of that glass
or to die without dying
or to sleep, maybe,
or to just stop wondering where she went
or with whom she's with

but not why she left

cause i know goddamn well why she left
same as you knew
when you played that flat minor
and bent that string til i swear it broke
and thumped that E
and wailed
and groaned up from the gut
and made me wish your song would play on,
an endless loop of sad ol' drunk-sick blues
in which a man might drift and wallow
and hide in this hard lonesome night forever