“I’ m verry dr unk” he giggled. The reek of whiskey and weed
peeled from his skin like rancid sunburn.
“I know,” I murmured. Kissed him on the eye
so he’d get some sleep. I had watched him slip,
drink by drink, from my small hands into a wet mess
of twist-top bottles and drool pooling under his chin.
“I ve been do ing thiis sin ce I was yourr age” he said.
Eyeballs lolled around in their sockets. 5 years gone.
1,825 nights. 21,850 bottles in a million shards
lodged into sand and and taken by children as oceanic currency.