Listening to Phoebe Bridgers, Driving Home

January night, and I left
my coat at work. The heater 
comes in starts and fits, 
but your voice is whiskey 
warm. My first 
cigarette in ten years.

Nearly home to my wife 
and kids, but not before 
I'm seventeen and broken 
again. Before love and antidepressants. Before 
I had to think about 
what I wrote. When it was 
just blood on the brain.