Whiksey

Whiksey

You see, that’s the problem. The first whiskey of the night makes me feel like I am in love. It overcomes me from the pit of my stomach, rising in flightiness to my head and I swoon over the 9 volt battery sitting in the corner. But, the last whiskey of the night makes me feel heartsick, and I know that feeling way too much. Like I am somehow rotting inside, and that there is no way that you would ever take me, or take me back.
I arose this morning at 4 AM to try to get out with the camera when the morning light was good and to see the world like I hadn’t seen it since I was swimming in high school. To make sense of this city when it moves more along the pace of the place where I grew up. Residual whiskey in my bones, like a dead lover, weighed heavy on my mind and the only photos I could find, which seemed beautiful to me at the time, were ones on the shadowy sides of buildings, perhaps the peek of sunlight around a corner, but no more.
I went to bed with thoughts of you, and I awoke with you still standing there in the corner of the room. An apparition of light and darkness all tied up into one little mess. It was not you I assume, as you were across town, the continent, or somewhere else as your alibi would prove – but a bundle of tied miscellania – earrings, one sock, a hairpin – enough to conjure the spectre.
There’s a dream that I have had, and had again, that seems to be unwilling to let me go. A hyperactive kid jumps in and out of a pool in a NC summer. I walk around the pool patrolling until my heart falls out of my body and into the water in the deep end and the tike swims down, sits on the bottom and eats it in a matter of two bites. My therapist knows nothing of this and I would rather keep it that way. I know it says something about me and you, or the apparition of you in the corner of this room, as I watch the war tonight, and try to drift ever so silently into slumber, and dream a little dream… dream, dream, dream.