Skull-******
and broken,
she finds herself in smoke-screened back alleys,
cheap hotels, and meetings with God.

Her AA sponsor's a bottle of champagne,
but she stays sober
because she hasn't a corkscrew.

We **** in tangle of limbs,
regret mingling with moans,
our bodies becoming one,
until we part again,
distant memories already fading
by the time the door closes.

I love in her the same things
that I hate in me,
those laughing, needling points
of failure
that seem to define my waking moments.

At least she knows what she is,
the pride of the ******
and all that.

I'm still searching for answers,
long passed the point of finding,
while she looks for a moment of peace,
an escape from this waking world,
and who am I to say she's wrong?