(pricing chemistry)

My brain is a rickety bridge over the dark days that lay ahead of the hopeful revelry they called the first date when the notion of loving didn't sound so goddamn quaint.

Words lost on the whiskey dropouts...

Tomorrow morning i may wake up broken-hearted. i could be elated. i could be dead (though that dramatic take on the situations seems unlikely at this moot stage of the game). anyway i'll be confused.

Tonight's events should bear repeating. they should echo the broken halls of my memory. i should recount them tear for kiss in an effort to make sense of what's happening to me and my pic but i can't. i won't perhaps. suffice it to say that things have grown strange and in becoming i've been reminded that sometimes love isn't everything.

Sometimes it doesn't mean shit.

That's fucking awful. i know. i know. but right now i don't know how to express myself in anything but bitter epithets. i've swallowed emotion. i've tried to cry openly (gagging, more often, instead). i've held my true love in my arms and tried to understand.

But i couldn't.

I can't.

And as the next days pass. as i drink and drink and smoke myself into a soporophic state where dreams take me somewhere i become that fucking hero and nightmares fuel my stringent ego. i'll know whether the new year will hold a familiar kiss or a strange conflagration of drunks in the nonsensical orgy of renewal.

Fuck.

I can already feel her touch slipping away.