Hemingway makes me want to drink until I cannot remember

He walked away after everyone else had. There was nothing heroic about it.

Isolated by snow. Suffocated by cold.

He watches the birds—flying and chirping and preening.

He thinks, Maybe I could learn.

And falls into a whiskey haze.

He grows weary of these text messages—lazy and fleeting and meaningless.

He wishes for more.

But it’s like wishing for the moon to warm the night.

One Response

  1. um, did you just write a poem?!

    LK - January 25th, 2011 at 3:44 pm