The Last 8 of Eden

She had the look of the last girl on earth, and I mean that in a good way. The moment I set eyes on her, I knew there would be no other to shine so brightly, or taste so beautiful on my tongue, though I knew I’d likely have to fake a few; nothing lasts forever in times like these, especially the good stuff.

Life has this way of teasing you with a paradise-built-for-you, and then promptly equips you with the ‘right’ tools and tempers to burn it down, like the fabled Adam and eve did, all done without either of you having a clue, in retrospect, what the hell had happened, but the damage apparently has already been done.

Unrepairable- A total loss, an insurance stooge might say.

Perhaps it was the smoke, but I never saw the bridges burning.

So you find yourself drinking too much while cycling through a few meaningless relationships, then a few more, until you realize there isn’t a point. So, then,  you shut and lock your door, turn off the phone, and drink some more- reminiscing and writing, glancing at your gun a time or two.

There might be a knock at the door, but it’s certainly not the only guest you wish to see, so you just don’t answer. You hear them call you an a*****e as they walk back to their car but hey- they should have called your phone, you tell yourself, knowing full well it was off all the same. Anyways, you didn’t have anything to offer them; being perfectly fine here in the darkest of places, serving a self-imposed penance- though you leave the porch light on, and one gate open.

The nights get colder, the whiskey gets stronger, but it has to, or else its pills to put you at ease enough to sleep. Always one or the other, or the nights are hell here- were you burned down the garden, and live in its shell, wondering where she might be out there.

It’s here in this place, where night after night, moon after moon, I bury myself, though I know a trip to some far off place might do me well- and soon. It’s here where I suffer myself with fools fantasies; stubborn, drunk, and waiting.

      The Prevention clinics and councilors would have a hell of a time with this writing, were I still in a state to take my own life… The loss of Faith, the loss of ideals, goals, all three the burial nails I have scratched at and beaten for many years… seeking the will to live, to reconcile myself, somewhere beyond this cursed soil- for who, either new or old, would possibly want to pursue someone who refused to stand on his own two feet; someone who didn’t love the dawn and the rain.. or just to love in general, or even know the meaning of it all until he lost the only thing he knew?

Reviews

[rodrigogour]

"The nights get colder, the whiskey gets stronger, but it has to, or else its pills to put you at ease enough to sleep."

I love the whole thing.

[A.J.]

hey thanks for reading! any suggestions?