A Dyadic Life

"The entire substructure of his brain
is eaten away with rum."
-- Hunter Thompson

For a number of years, I crossed your path, and you crossed mine.
We frequented the same places.  We knew the same people.
Maybe we sat next to each other.  Perhaps we spoke.
I cannot recall. 
I had vodka.

Some time later, our introductions came.
You were her friend.  I was his buddy.
I lumped our meeting with the rest.
Just one more face.
I had vodka.

Then, there was the game, and we were the third-wheels.
We made a connection, and smiled, and laughed.
While exchanging numbers, you were pulled away.
You were told to avoid me.  That I was no good.
We would meet again.  No big deal.
I had vodka.

On our next meeting, we tossed a football.
You threw the ball hard, and broke my finger.
That's OK.  I had vodka.

In the fall, we met once more.
You noticed something was wrong.
You told me not to drive.
I listened politely, and motored on.
I had vodka.

Suddenly, there was The Incident.
You refused to believe it was me.
I had aged twenty years, you said.
After the coma, you came to my aid.
I couldn't tell you what I needed.
My mind, and body were all but lost.
It was the vodka.

Months later, you paid me a visit.
I didn't merely survive. 
I was just as I was before The Incident.
One day turned into seven.
Two lifetimes of stories, told in a week.
We laughed so hard it hurt.
"Wait a minute", you said in stitches.
We can have fun while we are sober.
We don't need vodka.

It all seems too perfect.
It cannot be this easy.
Maybe I didn't make it,
and this is our own.
No use for vodka.

There is so much left to do,
with our second chances.

Photo: First Sunset
By:  DWT