The New is Already Old

all the dead promises drowning in
a half-finished lowball of rotgut neat. false
embraces, algid kisses, they all swirl
around in the almost-empty fifth, letting out
final gasps as they finally
die off. as midnight
approaches, again, it’s time to
start anew; a bottle of gin
cracked, it tastes like
old lies, old false promises, old
kisses that might have
meant something in a parallel dimension. nothing
makes sense but the booze in the lowball, and down
it goes, whirling in the brain till it eradicates all
the hazardous memories, creating space
for new moments that’ll never be
remembered.