Tasted like putrid but that suited me down to the ground
No such woman by my side but I had my alcohol-fuelled dreams to tide me over
Hard as hell to stay sober with nothing to do but sit it out, stare at the cheap bottle of wine in front of me
What will it be, a night on the tear or a word or two that will inevitably turn this particular poem into something of a slewed prayer to the high heavens
God forbid I do the latter of the two, continue on my own, all too prone to making this a regular occurence, ending up alone at home
Friday night
Tail between my legs so to speak
Here’s a suggestion, take myself on out of it, sit with a good neighbour, but be hell sure not to bore her with fabricated tales before my impending realisation that I may just be writing to no-one

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