Someone told me to write a poem about the thing I need
And all I know are the things I want, things that stem from greed.
Years of a numb kind of drunk
No awareness of a spirit already sunk
Lungs filled with smoke
An empty laugh at a warm joke
The only indulgence I missed
The only discernable mistake
The first name on a long, long list
Was letting you go, allowing it to break.