WHISKEY + MOONLIGHT ©

WHISKEY & MOONLIGHT©

Day 1: This is not a love story… How could it be? It shouldn’t be, but last night a warm scotch and the shadow of a super moon illuminated the black hole of a cold broken heart…and I glimpsed things I never knew before… #kw2018/2019twitterstory

Day 2: The dance of Whiskey & Moonlight swirls and pulls life out on to the page. Raw, disconnected. Echoed silence whispers to me- go into the dream and I will be there… the shadow cast is wide, no more going inside… #Whiskey&Moonlight©2018/2019 #kw2018/2019twitterstory #fiction

DAY: 3 The crisp early sun weaves together things that did not exist before and calls into question last nights binge; to forget, to remember. I take into account that each step I take is grounded in a past drowned in an amber colored glass. Yet curiosity, possibly boredom, make me wander forward…

DAY 4: Smoke rings read my fortune, blankets all I am—hidden meanings and secret truths I’ve yet to understand. And he—the one who haunts my dreams—remains faceless. The news speaks of bomb cyclones and Niagara Falls freezing; I guess anything is possible…

DAY 5: I need to remember that at the end of every day, I am alone. I do everything with the intent of satisfying some primal, instinctive need/desire hoping I don’t f**k it up… Another shot before I lose my courage…It’s a new day. He texts. “Sorry about yesterday,” he says, “sometimes I just lose my mind.” I think, “I beat you to it.” He adds, “Want to meet for lunch?” Nothing wrong with free lunch, “Sure.”

DAY 6: In the tiny bar we grab a booth in a dark corner. I can’t help but order the usual, as does he, and so begins the dance of love swirling over ice. “I’ve missed you.” We say in unison; tethered together, that old familiar pull, kites on a string…we navigate the winds that howl outside, a reminder that all is not as it seems.

DAY 7: To say it’s all normal, causes the pain to bleed into the edges, creating a watercolor in hues of red. We orbit each other in a drunken cloud, lightening in our touch. And for a while, lunch is sanctuary. “Did you ever think life would be this?”

All I can reply is, “Not in a million lifetimes, yet here we are.”

DAY 8: I wake up disoriented. I reach for you but you are not there. Your scent hangs in the air, like a cigarette haze. The soft + hard of you lingers in my bed, a reminder of the good old days. We are twin-stars in orbit around the sun, waiting for catapult or for burn. The moon dips to light the way for others in need of enlightenment or saving. I watch the birds outside the window, the sway of the blossoming branches, the silent rush of falling water, and for the moment, I find myself floating with the heartbeat of the earth and longing for something I cannot name.

DAY 9: The wind is angry and my head aches. There was a time when the only care in the world was looking into your eyes. But life is life. It sucks up and away precious moments unless I hang on tight; ride the rainbow in your eyes. The longing I crave is a crutch. The familiar itch I can’t scratch. You are gone, but only for a while. I wander down the street–forgetting that I have to work– I walk into the local place with familiar faces. The numb is all I can focus on…cuz I know someday the ride will end.

Day 10:  Most days, i’m no sure what I’m doing. I’ve run away so many times–not physically but mentally–that i wonder if I’m dead or alive. Is it all a dream? Will I wake up in a different reality? These thoughts never did anyone any good. My cell rings. It’s my boss. I’m late. Again. I get a large coffee with a shot to keep away what chases me…

Day 11: They never asked if I was ok. And that hurt. I get it. Words are difficult in some situations, but it still hurts. Moving on is a matter of opinion. The truth is out in the light of the sun and so is not accessible to me. I live obscurity.

Day 12: But today is a new day. A science podcast plays in earphones snuggly placed; something about giving up alcohol for better sleep, less suffering, a habit to kick… For me, the soothing golden liquid helps me with my job–ha, I’m deluding no-one but myself–it requires not only attention but creativity. At the local bookstore I arrange the displays, moving things from here to there…tedious, all-consuming attention.

Then there’s you. I remember when we met, laughing and talking as we drove to meet the first light of day. Only us under the underpass. Tucked in your arms, incandescent waves radiated. And where are you today? Not here. I long for your touch, your breath, your smile. Your picture grips my attention. A breath escapes me. You are my screensaver. You are my life saver, hard and sweet.

“Oh hey,” a colleague says, opening the door.

Here’s to another day on displays.

Day 13:

I’m falling slipping, dripping, caught in a riptide, a sink hole. A whirlpool; an Ekman Spiral. I level my gaze on a horizon that sways. Your pain. My pain. A silent tug of war.

The hallway outside the apartment smells like onions and garlic. For the moment I feel excitement. Inside, it’s quiet. Only empty bottles and dirty dishes. A note: sorry I missed you. You know how it  is. Hope you don’t mind… The acrid smell of a spent cigarette at the bottom of a glass. A small dandelion dangling on the edge of an empty beer bottle. So fragile. Too many wishes that don’t come true. I leave; walk, anywhere.