I Can't Make You Feel It, Whatever It Is

I could hand you the bottle, tip it slow, let the cheap red river burn down your throat— but I can't make you feel it. I could drop you in a dim-lit room, where the fan wobbles and the radio wheezes some dead man's blues— but I can't make you hear it. I could carve the hunger into your ribs, make you watch the world walk by with full pockets and easy hands— but I can't make you taste it. I could lay down the cards, deal the losses, stack the nights like empty beer cans— but I can't make you know it.