syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
She is collecting her things as she says, I just can’t do it again sweetie. I watched my father dive to the bottom of a bottle of Southern Comfort, and I’m not going to watch you do the same. I won’t watch you kill yourself too.
I understand, but I never drink Southern Comfort.
I’m serious. Stop being so fucking calm about all this, I’m leaving.
I’ll miss you.
That’s all you can say? You’ve not even going to try and stop me?
How can I?
She shakes her head in disappointment.
All she needs right now are the perfect few words strung together to make her stay. She doesn’t really want to go. If you could just find those words, you wouldn’t have to live alone again, you wouldn’t have to add her to the ever increasing list of broken relationships. Unable to commit they say, worthless drunk or drug addict they say, emotionally unavailable, unstable, won’t communicate, boring, all reasons cited for leaving.
Is this your CD or mine?
Take it.
You are sure she doesn’t own any Brian Jonestown Massacre CDs. She is stalling. Say something. For once in your pathetic life don’t drown the words you want to say before they have a chance to come out. Don’t cork your mouth with another bottle. Tell her. Tell her what exactly?
I want you to stay, but not because I’m in love with you. I just don’t want to be alone again. I don’t want to have to find another woman and tear her dreams apart too. I only want you to stay because it is comfortable and easy and safe. I only need you to stay so I can appear normal. I’m really just using you at this point.
You don’t know much, but you are sure those words aren’t strung together properly. So you do as you always do, and probably always will, and take another hit of whiskey.
You could at least stop drinking until I leave, she says blandly.
Why start now?
She looks defeated and you are immediately sorry you said it. You are sorry you repeat the same pointless pattern over and over again. You don’t know how to stop.
She crosses the small space between you, and puts her hand on your rough cheek.
Whatever it is you are looking for, I hope you find it. I do still care for you whether you think I do or not, so I’m going to give you some advice. What you are looking for isn’t in that bottle, it isn’t in little lines of white powder, or little blue pills, or a books, or a movies. Your problem is in here and here, she says while touching your chest and your head. You won’t find it in another woman, only you can save yourself.
She turns and picks up her bag, giving a small, sad smile as she reaches the door.
Now you stand alone in the quite and emptiness that is once again you life. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream. You half sit half collapse in the middle of the hard floor, and stare into the dark brown liquor. It looks so warm and inviting, it’s all that’s left. Wiping your red eyes, you look around the room at the remains of another failed and broken relationship.
By midnight you are smashed in some downtown bar, the West End or Out West or The West Waugh, something having to do with the west, as if it mattered.
You are trying to tell some chick whose is nearly as drunk as you are that once you actually believed drugs and alcohol to be the source of all your failings and short comings.
Sobriety is ok enough, you say. But for once I’d like my life to be about doing something good rather than just not doing anything bad.
Although the young woman is smiling and nodding and saying yeah, yeah, you imagine the only thing she really understands is that she would like to get outside one more vodka tonic before closing.
She is looking off in the opposite direction in search of the bar keep not even pretending to listen anymore. Your cell rings from your pocket and when there is no sound but fragile sobs on the other end you can tell, even through the haze of a fifth and countless drinks here in the West, it’s her.
The pills and the booze give you the courage to say something regrettable.
You left me, remember.
You snap the phone shut and turn your attention to the young girl next to you. The bar keep has brought her last drink and you watch in fascination as her slender neck muscles pull the drink down. All your desire, all your longing personified by a young woman drinking vodka much too quickly. And with that you are in love again. The same way you are in love with a million different women walking down the street. The way you need to know nothing about their lives to be completely captivated by them. Just from a glance, or the way their hair rest on their shoulders, or the way their bra strap cuts into their shoulder. For that moment you are completely and wholly lost in the prospect of a lasting relationship. You are so afraid no is every going to love you like that. The love that’s so delicate and brief, anything can ruin it. The love you always thought was given and set and just waiting for you.
I understand, but I never drink Southern Comfort.
I’m serious. Stop being so fucking calm about all this, I’m leaving.
I’ll miss you.
That’s all you can say? You’ve not even going to try and stop me?
How can I?
She shakes her head in disappointment.
All she needs right now are the perfect few words strung together to make her stay. She doesn’t really want to go. If you could just find those words, you wouldn’t have to live alone again, you wouldn’t have to add her to the ever increasing list of broken relationships. Unable to commit they say, worthless drunk or drug addict they say, emotionally unavailable, unstable, won’t communicate, boring, all reasons cited for leaving.
Is this your CD or mine?
Take it.
You are sure she doesn’t own any Brian Jonestown Massacre CDs. She is stalling. Say something. For once in your pathetic life don’t drown the words you want to say before they have a chance to come out. Don’t cork your mouth with another bottle. Tell her. Tell her what exactly?
I want you to stay, but not because I’m in love with you. I just don’t want to be alone again. I don’t want to have to find another woman and tear her dreams apart too. I only want you to stay because it is comfortable and easy and safe. I only need you to stay so I can appear normal. I’m really just using you at this point.
You don’t know much, but you are sure those words aren’t strung together properly. So you do as you always do, and probably always will, and take another hit of whiskey.
You could at least stop drinking until I leave, she says blandly.
Why start now?
She looks defeated and you are immediately sorry you said it. You are sorry you repeat the same pointless pattern over and over again. You don’t know how to stop.
She crosses the small space between you, and puts her hand on your rough cheek.
Whatever it is you are looking for, I hope you find it. I do still care for you whether you think I do or not, so I’m going to give you some advice. What you are looking for isn’t in that bottle, it isn’t in little lines of white powder, or little blue pills, or a books, or a movies. Your problem is in here and here, she says while touching your chest and your head. You won’t find it in another woman, only you can save yourself.
She turns and picks up her bag, giving a small, sad smile as she reaches the door.
Now you stand alone in the quite and emptiness that is once again you life. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream. You half sit half collapse in the middle of the hard floor, and stare into the dark brown liquor. It looks so warm and inviting, it’s all that’s left. Wiping your red eyes, you look around the room at the remains of another failed and broken relationship.
By midnight you are smashed in some downtown bar, the West End or Out West or The West Waugh, something having to do with the west, as if it mattered.
You are trying to tell some chick whose is nearly as drunk as you are that once you actually believed drugs and alcohol to be the source of all your failings and short comings.
Sobriety is ok enough, you say. But for once I’d like my life to be about doing something good rather than just not doing anything bad.
Although the young woman is smiling and nodding and saying yeah, yeah, you imagine the only thing she really understands is that she would like to get outside one more vodka tonic before closing.
She is looking off in the opposite direction in search of the bar keep not even pretending to listen anymore. Your cell rings from your pocket and when there is no sound but fragile sobs on the other end you can tell, even through the haze of a fifth and countless drinks here in the West, it’s her.
The pills and the booze give you the courage to say something regrettable.
You left me, remember.
You snap the phone shut and turn your attention to the young girl next to you. The bar keep has brought her last drink and you watch in fascination as her slender neck muscles pull the drink down. All your desire, all your longing personified by a young woman drinking vodka much too quickly. And with that you are in love again. The same way you are in love with a million different women walking down the street. The way you need to know nothing about their lives to be completely captivated by them. Just from a glance, or the way their hair rest on their shoulders, or the way their bra strap cuts into their shoulder. For that moment you are completely and wholly lost in the prospect of a lasting relationship. You are so afraid no is every going to love you like that. The love that’s so delicate and brief, anything can ruin it. The love you always thought was given and set and just waiting for you.
good stuff dude, yea.