The Good Times

Sitting in the corner, drinking my weight in wine.
At this rate, I'll be dead by the end of the night.
Children in the next room with X's on their hands
dance to music I no longer care to understand.
This dial-tone coincides
with a dialisis machine in a room nearby.
The matching frequency penetrates the white-wash walls
and wakes each patient with its ringing.
As the bitter frost accumulates and all transparent turns opaque,
we'll stay inside while the condensation of our bottles makes rings across the carpet. We'll trespass across foreign lawns like ambassadors of our own loneliness.
Our screams will resonate off the sides of churches but receive no answer
as a patrol car at the end of the block warms a child who only wanted to be a hero.
It's clear we've grown bored of making love.
We're fucking in 1's and 0's.
Although our constricted blood cells and false sense of reason will advise us to dwell instead of forget,
promise me we'll never speak of this again.
We are the cancer.
We are the cure.
Our happiness is far from pure.
But when this hell drops in temperature and all we know are names,
we will still be here.
We'll remain the same and we'll scream that these were the good times.
These were the good times.