We never made it to the top. You and I had both had too much
and together we slumped against the cobblestone,
let the bottles fall from our hands and roll down before us,
their clinks and clatter rupturing the silent night.

No more, you said. No more of this routine,
where intoxication takes over
and the stars simmer and spin
and the eardrums ache
and the mind is left tender
and the heart is left raw,
no more, no more.

Your final words as I fell asleep against the railing,
and the morning rose in warmth and birdsong.

Last week, I heard from a friend that you got a job,
and I saw your sister in the pub the other day
and she said you moved out
and that you quit drinking
and that you finally cut your hair.

Looks like you made it to the top.
Keep going, mate.
Go on without me.
Slumber calls.