a sex-driven best friend that spoonfeeds me chamapagne & a troubled soul that calls me from where telephones are yet to be invented.
both my friends; yet one my most hated enemy.
i hold hands with liars & taste strangers lips in the dark; they taste of cigarettes & vodka shots.
"don't go" he whispers, but i'm too drunk with the feeling that we're all friends.
i leave, late & never on time, with the strangers taste still in my mouth. & i think: happy birthday to me.