The meaningless legend of smashed whiskey morning

The heartbreak is realizing that nothing is personal.

A bleary-eyed 8 a.m.
Sees you fumbling past the detritus of unidentified crumbs and clutter to the shelf above the fridge.
You feel the cold, cylindrical weight rolling forward and stop it with your hand.
Leave the cabinet door half shut and step back trying to work the turgid hamster wheel of your creaking consciousness.

And, like Pandora, look again, because what else can you do with your higher reasoning still snoring in the nascent warmth of the human formed sheet you left 21 minutes behind.

The second time, the unidentified shape is waiting.
And the full bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey, forgotten from mid-March
crashes spectacularly into the cheap roll out linoleum
the thick concave bottom where the glass is thickest
ejecting like an escaping spirit
giving up the ghost and a liter of proof 80
onto the cluttered floor of your cramped, disjointed kitchen.

No one asked if you wanted to spend the morning cleaning the most day lit and unexhilerating bottle of liquor you’ve ever smashed from under the corners of the refrigerator and depths beneath the cabinets you should have cleaned last year.
No one is awake to hear you swear.
Nothing smothers the spark of outrage like the lack of a caring audience.
You dip like the end of a damp cigarette into the growing pool of alcohol
with a rag wholly not up to the task
to welcome the birth of another day
with the stench of late night promises and forgotten idealizations
sticking like tar to the recesses of your lungs.

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