He peered out through the curtains into the night and for a moment he swore he saw her standing barefoot in the snow. He rubbed his eyes and took another swallow of scotch. It burned through his hollow chest- the only thing strong enough to numb the pain.
He looked out the window again and found nothing but a pristine layer of snow. The warmth of the scotch faded all too quickly leaving behind the sickening ache of his broken heart. It would take more than a few shots to drown his pain tonight.
The curtain dropped back into place and his eyes drifted across the room. She was everywhere- the chair beside him, the comb on the night stand, an earring on the dresser. He squeezed his eyes shut to block her out, but it was no use. Her delicate pink lips curved in a knowing smile. Candlelight reflected in her brilliant green eyes. The soft waves of her auburn hair fell across her pale shoulders. She was breathtaking.
Trembling he reached for her. She shook her head and faded away. He was alone. Left with nothing but a broken heart and an empty bottle of scotch.
I’m writing you nightly notes, these days
the ghost of Bukowski on one shoulder
Williams on the other
the room smelling faintly of soap and scotch.
By the end of the night we’re all the same
punchdrunk on words running off the page
puddling between the shotglasses and spectacles
trying our best not to think about
the plums in the icebox
you were saving
as we kneel
before the tigers
who will not let us be.
The lights go on,
as white petals, adjectives, and applause cascade to the floor
before we stand before all of Rome before the fall of Rome.
The gates raise
expostulation gives way to acquiescence
beside me I hear William’s faintest sigh
and Chuck brazenly announces
the tigers have found us
and we do not care.”
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