when I say what I mean, loosen my hands and lay my honesty down on the table, who loses? my stubborn brain, holding out with white knuckles, has cost me a tender heart time and time again.
the familiar dusty bottle in one hand while I press the napkin down with the other, I ask the wind coming through my window, how does the smallest scratch hit just deep enough to rush all the blood back to old wounds?
george used to come around with 2 things, the coffee pot and a bottle of ouzo. we played pool at 25cents a pop and got our asses handed to us. prices kept climbing and the place kept empty but the lights stayed on and they never closed. rest in peace to a san francisco staple I’ll miss forever.
