We have not left this place for years,
because there is no straight line between truths.
We always take the long road home,
because you and I weren’t built for shortcuts.
We study the charts then ignore them,
because we use road maps of Toledo to sail the Caribbean.
We no longer sleep in the bedroom,
because we have built a raft in the living room.
We are collecting memories like driftwood,
because no one else will write our story.
We are fading away like the morning fog,
because you can’t write our history in stone.
We navigated the world in our underpants,
because who doesn’t like underpants.
We are wildly off course, traveling by the light of your dreams,
because you showed me the beauty of being lost.
We haven’t the faintest idea what comes next,
because it’s where we said we’d be.
Drinkers with Writing Problems 