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Memories of Her

He knows that when he wakes in a drunken stupor, her name will be the first word to pass through his cracked lips that will still sting from the amount of alcohol consumed. He knows that before he falls asleep with several other women on his arm, she will be the one thing that consumes him until unconsciousness finds him empty and drags him down to the abyss. He knows, every single moment, that, as the smoke leaves his mouth, she walks further away from him. He knows his choices will be the death of him, yet he can't stop. He needs the fix; he needs a way to forget her because she even plagues his dreams. There is no escape, no point in trying to run away from something much bigger than you. He knows, when he wakes up, his bed will be empty again and his phone will be voicemail-free -- just as it has been for five months. His calls will never be answered and his messages are automatically deleted. He knows this. He knows the numbness is what gets him through the days. It is the only thing that calms his soul and quiets his brain, just enough for him to roll another joint or pour another shot. He knows that when he wakes his mouth will taste of her, the sweet aftertaste of honey that's been mixed with so much bourbon you got drunk just by being near. His choices consume him, every detail vivid as the fight replays in is mind: there was so much screaming his voice blew out and neighbors down the street could hear it. He remembers all that, the breaking of china when lines were crossed and the threats pushed through lips raw from her own teeth. The last detail is the one that hurts the most, yet it is so painfully clear and focused that he can think of it from afar and immediately need a drink. The detail is her, grabbing a suitcase and storming out the door, hair wild with a scowling expression to match the darkness in her eyes. He remembers the regret, knowing that if she left this porch, she would never come back. He let her leave. That's the thought that destroys him, that mere whisper that says he lost the only thing in his forsaken, miserable life that had any meaning. That's the thought that causes him to wonder if any of this was even worth it in the first place.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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Date: 11/6/2019 5:18:00 PM
Don't look so directly. Move on, seasons... all things are seasons... Excellent write. Welcome to the soup. More poems please... Ann
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Date: 11/5/2019 8:26:00 PM
A story that is sadly familiar to many. Regrets linger for awhile. Welcome to Poetry Soup Ella.
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