Nostlagia Is A Cruel Joke

There were times

when we would drink from cyanide rivers

under the burning sky

We would even inhale the fumes

and look at the world through rainbow glass

Now it feels like the colors are broken

and I'm cradling them in my calloused hands

They are too sliced to feel the damp ghosts

of my former ethanol-brothers

and the poison has long left my system

I just want to drown myself one more night

with you

before the sin of the moon

swallows me whole