empty hands, empty heart, emptiness. those open cavities and spaces where she used to reside.
a hollow exists therein, your guts clenched, the whole of your everything ill at ease while you stand on some corner of some street on another muggy night out of doors. out of chances.
fill it up with maker's mark to trick your brain and body into believing there is a warmth within. but there is no satisfaction in the 03:00 aftermath.
only the chance you took, only the woozy blur of 24 blocks home through the city, through the park, through your soul.
only you at night in your bed, the mind reeling with the endless possibility of the future.
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juillet 25:
juillet 26:
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