SmokeLong Quarterly

We are pictures of ourselves drinking. We are holding bottles and flashing red from our half-closed eyes. Our mouths are off-center. Lookeehear, we are saying too loud to the rooms we are always in. ThethingIamsaying, we are saying but are frozen in saying it, strangely twisted, like creatures caught between laughter and something sour. Fingers jab in hard flat air. Looklooklook. Here we all are, holding our open bottles and plastic cups for all of eternity or however long it takes to peel and fade. Whichever comes first.