I know more people dead than people alive, my insomniac answer to self-addressed prayers is that in the small hours even God drinks alone. My self-portrait; gray locks in the beard, red eyes burning back in the mirror, the truths of grooves and nicks on my face, one missing tooth. I'm a man who's gathered too many addresses, too many goodbyes. There's not much money or time left to keep on subtracting from my life. Except for needs I can pack everything I have into my old black sea-bag. To all the bloods I'll raise a bourbon, plant my elbow on the bar and drink to the odds that one more shot won't have me wearing a suit of blues. I'm so exposed, with you all of me is at risk, and if that's only one side of being in love that's the one deep down that proves it. Here you are sleeping with me, narcotic as night, naked as an open hand, and the skinny of it is, what makes you think I am afraid of this when I once lived in a cave, moss on the cold wall, all my bones scattered across the floor.