Yeah. Its been more than two years without you. You continue
to be the unaccounted for anomaly. There are those who have been after my life
to let go. In my best interests. But, as is in most cases, that shit seldom
works. I could have discounted it if you just haunted a sporadic drunken
stupor. The problem is your absence is more potent without alcohol.
It’s the mornings
that are the hardest. Time was supposed to dim the smell of your hair, well, I
still remember it. And that is bloody unfortunate, lying around for fifteen
minutes, struggling with the sheets to blot it out. And trust me, I get more
bloody efficient with it everyday. At least I try. Another century, and I’d
probably be on the brink of having a normal morning. The worst is when you’re
there in a dream, where all is still well, nothing’s happened, and then
something has to fucking happen to wake me up. I really cannot describe it, but
its really close to falling off a motorcycle, dragging on the road, and the
first shot of red hot pain when the initial shock sets in, the one where your
head reels, you see stars, your hands go cold, you break into a sweat, your
throat goes dry, and your feet buckle under you. Yep. Picture that. Exactly
that. Every fucking time.
Its hard to explain, but there is nothing to move on from.
You may have lost interest, but that really does not work both ways like a
portal. And as long as that portal remains open from one side, I guess I’ll
always be in that wormhole. This is where that bad boy image takes the real
thrashing. The whole cocksurety goes out of the window, like a balloon going
plonk. There’s a sense of misplaced pride that will not let me relent and make
that call, though I really don’t count on that working either, but on the other
contradictory hand, there’s that misplaced as fucking hell hope that refuses to
die out, that maybe you’d break. That you’d make that call. Just, maybe, but
well, that’s what losers do in general. Talk about fucking Stockholm Syndrome.
There are those nights after alcohol where that phone glints
like the proverbial bullet, but the scary part is when it’s the same after tea.
If they take me away to a padded cell one day, maybe, they really wouldn’t be
that off the mark. I hope the medication that comes with that straitjacket, is
strong enough to blot out everything. Everything. Well, most of it anyway.
I’ve always been really good at taking the hostage out of
the equation, but the problem is I can’t really take myself out, can I?
