Deep in the bottle, where even the strongest minds fizzle, perspective sways softly and judgment is cutting deep into submission of stupor and stumble, a profound lack of commitment nodded off in the chair.
Wishing away today and tomorrow, but shadows can be patient and wait for the dark. The lump on the couch, he bristles with anger, fed whiskey and Winston’s to dull those sharp cravings for death ever-lasting, for abyssal release.
You left the lump breathing, withdrew your attention to his core care and feeding; you’ve taken to singing serenades to the sleeping, but memories keep bleeding, that puncture your tincture; for that lump is your fixture of regret and remorse.
The lump does not whimper until shadows are long, the reruns on TV run into the screaming of your song; the drum solo hammers on tomb-like front door; a concert, just for husband and you; the social worker’s knocking; whatever will you do?