Looking for that cool, clear stare that comes from the last hit of the first night of some endless binge.
Looking for engorged, dripping breasts flapping flesh as the heaving, pounding sound of ecstasy licks at my ears.
Looking for those words whispered--
those Promises, Promises, Promises.
And that wide-open orifice called Belief.
But I can't see past the dried food on these plates
or the broken crayons scattered on the floor
or the cat licking and biting at her frayed and bony tail.