Dancing on the Needle

days and night spent on a
blue foldout couch doing
nothing but staring out of the window;
the tv running in the background, none of
the shows would register to the speeding mind.
the clouds hovering over the office building across
the sky seemed to portray Emily’s smile and I’d
drain more bottles of Four Roses while looking
for a clean needle and a glass pipe.
puffing on a piece of ice, right before
shooting brown-tar heroin; then, chugging half
a bottle of bourbon. erratic breathing, thundering
heartbeat, numbness crawling all over the
body. I was invincible, the man that could
not die. smoking opium, snorting
cocaine, downing two fifths of Four Roses; I was
still awake, still aware of the world outside the
fucking window, still aware that Emily was not
there anymore to hold my hand during long
trips down nirvana lane.
even the page did not make sense, let alone
whatever crazy dreams of college education and future career I
might have had when I was young, dumb, and merely an amateur drunkard.
during some crepuscular, suicidal weeks I discovered
the true calling; I smoked, snorted, drank, and cooked everything
and anything and slowly recaptured the rhythm of the page.
Emily’s ghost’s still following me around, now accompanied by a grey vocal cat,
and I still drink two fifths despite not snorting anything anymore.
it feels dull, not piercing the veins nightly or cooking glass
in a plastic bottle at five in the morning while drunk, but it feels like
the keyboard has a few more dances to give and I keep pushing forth
until the last tango.