It's as early in the morning as it is late at night, and the bottle of Morgan is lying empty on the ground.
Your laugh is careless and free of the perpetual sorrow and jittery fear that you carry like a Chihuahua in a handbag.
Tonight fear has fallen asleep at his post by your mouth and your words and thoughts
     walk unhindered into the night.

It all feels like a dream the next morning through the stupor of your hangover.
Your tongue is heavy with the sickly sweetness of stale alcohol and words you know were said but can't remember.
As you look into his smile though you can't help but be grateful
     for the bravery found in a bottle.