The Howling Moon

The drink drips from the perspiring glass. Car bombs and miller light coming by the rounds, as everything fades but the constant sound. . .of your voice. It echoes in my head like a broken record, it’s played in reverse to reveal a hidden message that always seems to elude me. My stomach is running on empty aside from the alcohol that’s being pumped in like gasoline into a dilapidated Cadillac. Time seems to slow down as my senses become blurred. All I can focus on is this touch-sensitive screen that seems to scream out my insecurities in silence. You’re voice is thumping in my head, like a migraine I can’t seem to get over. I feel feverish. Body temperature rising till the alcohol is evaporating. It’s released through my pores like I wish the memory of you would exit me. But I can’t kick the habit that is you. You’re routine like rainfall during the spring. But you never seem to bring me back to life, so I stumble like the leaves in the fall. I feel barren like the winter, constantly waiting for the warmth of a summer that never comes. . .