this year we go hunting without you

this year we go hunting without you and
our lips are chapped and bruised;
we’re trapped in our old ways and
youre somewhere far from these haunts;
like the october leaves that tumble into november ashes,
off to new claims.
so we run off into the night,
and we drink the warm flat rootbeer in your memory,
muggy and warm and salty-sweet,
with our sheets over our heads,
we howl to the moon.
jaws snapping, noses twitching,
muggy and warm and salty-sweet, the
autumn-tinged air presses in around us.
this year we go hunting without you.