I miss drinking even while I'm drinking.
It is worth almost dying

to be orphaned by the scotch in its tall vessel. 
A bottle of scotch is so like the body—

glass the fragile anatomy, 
liquid the unpredictable personality, the soul

that burns a different brand on every tongue—
one must mourn the final glass as a death.

The death of a parent, even.
I am my father's executioner.

I have blood but no tears, 
a mouth but I never smile.

Still, there are things that make me feel alive, 
like kissing a dead body on the lips.

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