Vodka and Redbull
Three hundred sixty minutes and
sixteen shots later,
and my heart is still unraveling
inside of my chest.
Four hundred eighty minutes
and eight cans of Redbull later,
and my bloodshot eyes are
begging for sleep.
Five hundred forty minutes and
a bottle of vodka later,
I'm staring at trembling fingers and
dying to hold you.
Six hundred minutes and
half a pack of cigarettes later,
and I'm straining to remember
your name.
And that's alright with me.
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