romantic drunks drunk on drunken romance

it only takes three drinks
for me to fall in love
but it takes
months and months of winter
sweating underneath a mountain of sheets
with a bottle of something heavy
against my lips
to recover
from love

and so i cling to the gutters
and the alley ways
on that side of the tracks
where love aint found
a deadbeat whose dead beat
i hide beneath the dirt
and find comfort in the dead

uptown, downtown, underground via metro
looking for something to snack on
complex, dirty, untamable
deadbeats who are dead beat
the type
that doesn't want to know your name
and wont whisper
baby
in your ear

up, down, and sloshed on drink
looking for something to hold onto
instinct drops as we fall from the barstool
intuition becomes a lost puppy
and splashes with loud expression
against the bottom
of the wishing well

and so i let go
of that fear
and whisper
baby
in a sirens ear

drunk on it
for that sweaty moment
only to be revived
between dawn and the tick of the clock where cars start piling up on the freeway
then its
pants, socks, shoes and shirt
peck on the cheek
soft enough not to wake

and so i let go
of whatever feeling it was
and its
uptown, downtown, underground via metro
clinging to the gutters
and the alley ways
on that side of the tracks
making my way
back to that mountain of sheets