Happy Hour

and true, it may seem like a stretch,
but its thoughts like this that catch my troubled head
when you're away and i am missing you to death

I wonder what the bartender downstairs must think? I mean really, Tuesday I am making out with Vernice amongst the after work crowd, when drinks are cheap, when downtown establishments stick large wooden hooks out the front entrance, leashing the tired worker into dark contemplation with a glass of cheap cold beer.

Wednesday, I am back again, same time, but slightly deeper down the bar, with Nymphalidae. Looking lovely as always, she tempts me with early evening delights upstairs. All I can say is, don't tempt me my darling, don't you dare tempt me.

Sure, I am in love, but it's the worst kind of love there is; the kind of love you can never tell anyone about. Forbidden and destructive, but fantastic at the same time. A crush that is quite crushing indeed.

It is late, and I just returned from the mirror in the washroom. So boney I am. My rib cage protrudes, most of my hair winds up in the sink, and I have a permanently wrinkled brow with little beads of sweat on it. But tonight, staring at myself, I am reminded of Carey Grant for some reason. Short waisted, perpetually dressed in a cool gray suit, crisp shirted, and devinely charming, I am about to fall asleep, thinking of Carey Grant, but don't think I have forgotten about Burt Lancaster.