Tracing fingers through the puddles of condensation laid out by a sweating rocks glass. Tangent timelines spreading out across the cosmos like dendrites reaching for that forgotten memory.
I live with the apparitions left behind by the things you’ve said. They follow me around from place to place. They smoke with me, they drink with me, and they remind me. Every single ******* day, they remind me. That you were right.
You laughed when I gave the Devil his cut because you think he doesn’t exist. And yet he does. In the details. The fine print to the contract we signed with our first breath that reads you can try and try and try and the Devil may care if you do but you probably never will. And that’s just the first lick from the whip you have to take and they don’t get any softer.
The ghosts of your words not withstanding. I still check my phone. They laugh at me but I do it anyway. It’s like holding my hand to a candle every five minutes to see if it still burns. So to keep the blisters at bay. I trace out lines in the condensation until the moisture runs out and I began again. Like I do everyday. Without you.