3 AM

It's 3 in the morning.
Can't sleep.
Too many thoughts flowing through my head.
Day dreams in the night.
Bottles lay like empty vessels
Soulless
Drained.
Just as empty as the blunt box.
Or the blunts themselves.
All that's left is the scent
Of purple kisses and blueberry weekends.
Vodka and Crandberry salads.
And a Frank Sinatra ballad.
It's 3 in the morning.
Can't sleep.
So I write.
Too comotose for anything but this.
Steal from self tomorrow.
Make a hit.
But for now, I just want.
More then I can have
Surface smile
Because nothing ever lasts
But the scent
Of her purfume and my cologne
Vodka and Crandberry salad
and this Frank Sinatra ballad.