He—
Her ginger.
Limp handshake.
Cacophonous  laugh.
Features, disproportionate.
In most ways- narrow minded.
Exceedingly self-assured.
Without money he is
No better than I.
Loving she:
Always.
-Me


Yet
here I stand.
Clinging to the bottle.
Watching the years pass by.
Alone atop this cold, cobble, stoop;
Coat covered in cigarette ash.
I don’t think of  you—
or  at  least  I
try  not
to.


Not
quite dead…
However, not entirely
alive either. And I made a sincere
effort to climb out of the plot you left me in;
but darling that hole you dug me was  ******* deep!
And the only tool you’d left me was that ****
bottle; which for a short while helped.
Until eventually, like you,
it consumed
me.
    
  
Now
I  awaken,
only to find that I’m
no longer capable of feeling;
and what a great disappointment this
is to me. It would seem as though my receptors,
synapses, neurotransmitters, etc- have flickered and fried.
Dopamine, will no longer travel within these
useless,  dried-up,  old veins of mine.
Evidently my demise, resultant
of a life lived alone
in a faster
lane.