We have such difficulty never hearing the ending of stories that aren't ours, never satisfied with a story half told.
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This collection contains segments of stories from those we observe and yet never truly come to know despite our mind needing t...
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Vodka glides through my veins deeply frosting inside at my very core. Irises wander to him in the seat to the right of the soul who was once mine to adore.
All the places you could be tonight in our town, of course it would be the bar on the West Side. 'I'll have another,' I nod to the bartender, but my head doesn't turn, my mind is otherwise preoccupied,
Vividly remembering September 23rd, when we finally dared to fall. Drunk on kisses and eye lust in the warm autumn rain. I move to cold December snow when I decided to leave and you begged 'please don't go'. You didn't hear from me again.
Your mum asked me to break it off before you could fall. 'Art, you will never be enough for my daughter.' She saw me as your personal element of sin. Vodka is pure vodka even if it disguises itself as water.
But I'm the reason your heart fragments lay, vast and wide over the lecture hall floors. My heart is sub-zero, I didn't fight with the fire inside All because they didn't like the boy who draws.
You deserve a life that reflects your golden soul not tragic bottles of misleading vodka. Your life is gleaming and prosperous you don't need me to be an amazing doctor.
I raise my glass to you, mumbling words you spoke drenched from autumn rain, 'You taste like vodka, Art. ' I still do, and with that my glass I drain.
