Quintessence of Living

sitting on the beach, staring at the frozen
waters and the ice covering the sand; staying
warm as I take pulls out of a bottle of Jim Beam.
once the first bottle’s done, I smash it on a piece of
sturdy ice, the glass flies around and I’m reminded
of other nights, warmer nights, when things would
go crazy. Emily, after a few puffs from the glass pipe,
would smash a bottle on a rock, cackling like a
B-movie villain, and on occasion would
threaten to slash my throat, then she’d screech
and cry like a banshee getting her first taste of crack.
I tried to calm her down but I was drunk and high, too, and
would sometimes end up bellowing louder than
her. sirens would come
blaring and we’d run, both of us carrying enough
illegal substances (let alone the amount flowing in our blood)
to put our future grandkids to prison.
insanity would creep into our fairytale love affair on
occasion (more often than not) and it only
spiced things up. once we had
made it back to my apartment, with no cops
following us, we’d crack a bottle of Four Roses
and we’d fuck and drink until we passed out, often with our
bodies still one. more snow
falls now, too, and I take another sip, light
another cigarette. there’s a glass pipe in the inside pocket
of my jacket and an 8ball of homemade ice in my jeans.
it’s time to embrace insanity once
more, it’s time to recapture the quintessence of
the only time in my life I wasn’t a suicidal case.