This night has nothing to be ashamed of, and just staggered in this place at last call - drunken and unshaven, a kind of fuckless orgasm with no one to tuck it in bed.
This night has roamed across concrete, faced neon beer signs in liquored mirrors with hollowed eyes seeking reprieve in thirsts and pleasures sought. This night is curious. This night is weak.
This night is drenched in vodka, diazepam - forty miles from nowhere, wild and bewildered in a ceaseless thrust. This night aches. But then we see this:
Two bodies galloping against each other under cool sheets, a shudder, then a glow of silver on her snowy thigh, drying.
A bond, however fragile. Until morning when it takes flight and then it's gone?
Oh, who the hell knows, but I do know this night will stay in bed.