I absently stir my glass. It's a conditioned reflex. I have to keep my hands constantly moving these days. I have to keep doing... stuff. Whether it be smoking a cigarette, fumbling with my collar, or toying with my cell phone, I have to stay busy. It's an obsession now - one of many. The busier I stay, the better I'm able to forget... even if it's momentarily.
Then there's the drugs. Rusty heroin needles sliding into scabby veins whisper into my ears promising a release from the pain. A release from hallucinogenic, haunted memories dating back to a much happier time I long ago tried to bury in the ground and forget.
yesterday... all my troubles seemed so far away
It's not easy. To have stupidly walked from true love like a fucking scared-shitless asshole. I tell myself we'll see each other again after we die. And perhaps we will, that is...
if you'll take me.
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