Losing someone close to you is not a pleasant experience, whether they be gone in body or in spirit.  When my aunt finally returns to the ground, there ought be three dates on her stone:  day of birth, day of subsidance into drink, day of biological death.  In death, you might lose that loved person but you don't have to spectate as they transform into something else.  Drink just robs the light and life, leaves behind the confusion and the propensity for niggardly, embarrassing behaviour.

She played a large part in my life as I grew up, and I try to nourish my good memories of her.  This is not easy.  My memory is like voices from a neighbour's party.  Most of the time I just find myself angry with her, which I am sure she does not deserve.

You're gone.  There's no you.
There's no foot in the shoe.
I'll take your tenner down the shop and these three bottles of Valencia Red
might just as well be the bullets that blow the brains out the top of your head.

And you don't drink from them darling:  they drink from you.

I miss you.
At least, I think I do.
Memory's not as we like to think:
stagnant pools we ought not drink.
And were you kind?  I want to believe so.
Did you love?  Did you care?
Did you wash the fag smoke from your hair?

And you don't drain them darling:  they drain you.

There's no life in you,
soul in you,
alcohol stole from you:
addled your mind and corroded a hole in you;
broke your teeth,
stained your words,
buried its hand in you,
poisoned the guards, let your spirit abandon you.

And you didn't finish them darling:  they finished you.