Shift

After seven months I was rotting into December, slack-jawed, fruitless promises dripping out of my skull. By spring, the very thing that I swore I’d never surrender implored that my grip loosen; I was finally null. Beneath red or blue lights, on those black and blue nights I would melt into the memory of our heaven-to-be. Liquor and cigarettes delivered me to the depths of the ugliest hate-ridden place I ever did see. It was seven months later, one day early October, I paused and took a look at where my staggering led: I seemed happy, met a woman, I no longer was cold. Her smile lit me for a while, and led me into her bed. I realized what I wanted, what I needed, and suddenly we were sprawled across the floor looking onto the stars that glowed softly against the ceiling; (her passion was so revealing) they witnessed my recreation, (I was dyed in the wool) and the end of my reeling and every awful feeling. I sipped from her invitation and was finally full.