With your laughter tattooed to my ears

With your laughter tattooed to my ears,
I mix us another cocktail of
old tales and cynic tears.
The darker the joke, the thicker the cloak:
nothings too dark when you like to be broke.
Nothing too heavy, nothing too stark,
when inky black humor’s your only trademark.
There’s a frugal burning in your chest.
I suppose it’s best
that way.
A slow steady brick brazen burning.
Savoring nights drenched in watered down wine,
summoned by restless rising skyline.
But you are blood thirsty
for some unhaunted sleep,
sweet slumber without counting sheep.
I’m sorry I can never wear your,
I can never share your,
I can never bear your,
lost box car years,
your spiraling tears.
But I can live with you,
drunk between years.
Our hands resurrect souvenirs
of our graveyard sardonic self-esteem,
lapping up our own scrappy schemes.
Oh let’s copycat that crimson optimism,
my friend.
Let’s make a toast to the unholy ghost
of who we were, and are, and will be.
You’ll see.
My sweet sacred friend,
No need to pretend
that you’re not a godsend,
my fool, my heart,
my end and my start.