Here I am,
sitting in this abandoned house and 

all I can hear over the sound of that stupid fucking clock…

tick tock tick tock…


is the sound of your voice
in between hitched breaths

     saying my name. 

I’m drinking all of

my Grandma’s good liquor so that maybe I’ll get drunk enough to


     forget what your skin feels like

when I used to hurry to count your freckles in the remaining dying light of the day.

& I smoked my entire pack
sitting right here
in the sunroom next to the lake…


-Do you ever think about how weird water is? it has the power to look so beautiful & alluring but it can also be uncertain & dangerous-

     kind of like you. 

Anyways

the ashtray is overflowing and it’s oddly comforting how the tendrils of smoke
dance in the air & hang there like

death.

Anyways

I guess my point is that
 it feels better here in this
empty house

with death hanging over my head 2 bottles of wine in my stomach & that god damn fucking clock ticktockticktock than the fucking feeling of

   
losing you.