Six or Seven

Six or seven drinks.

That’s enough, I think,
to sink into a hard sleep
before I even reach the sheets.
Heavy, numb feet
take me through scenes
that fold and crease
together like reams of paper
twisted at the seams.
Things I forgot still cling,
like streetlight memories
playing on repeat,
never to cease
or let me have peace.
There must be some retreat,
a Lethean cheat
to break out of sync,
to end the looping dreams
and feel complete.


I’m still awake?

Make it seven or eight.