Written by George Gad Economou
we were like two rabid werewolves high on too much; screaming,
screeching, clawing, scratching, cursing…it never lasted.
we laughed it off over some lowballs of gin or bourbon,
over some heating junk. the fights were always about the lack
of whatever poison we didn’t have. whether booze, junk, blow, pot,
it was the reason of our fights. the money to get it, and who’d meet
the dealer.
back then, when hungover or sick, I hated the fights; now,
I miss them, despite their viciousness and often cruelty. other fights,
with other women, were not as vivid as those with Emily, they
were mundane. with Emily, even dinosaur-crippling hangovers
could be withstood. even sickness wasn’t daunting.
the love of my life, now long gone into the wind, to the other side,
over the edge. I’m still here, staring at the void; it’s monsters that
stare back, not her beautiful eyes.
I drink to spark a fight with anyone. it won’t be the same,
it won’t be like it was. it’ll still be
something.
Text © George Gad Economou
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