run

Smoke another cigarette.

Take a few more pills.

Swallow some more whiskey.

Run.

Run away from the unforgiving thoughts and images that fill your head.

Run away from yourself.

But your legs will not move fast enough. Your feet are too slow.

And you know where she is. And whom she is with.

Under the shadows of a darkened bedroom she is there. And she is a contortionist wrapped around his figure. The walls absorb the sounds that escape from her tepid lips.

The very lips you once tasted.

The very lips that spoke words you once thought were impossible: "I love you."

She loved you, Christopher.

Smoke another cigarette.

Take more pills.

Swallow more whiskey.

Run.

Run away from the agonizing images flickering inside your head.

Run away from yourself.

But your legs cannot carry the carriage of regret. Your feet are steel anchors. And you are sinking a million miles offshore.

And she cannot hear your cries. She is the concrete floor that catches his frame -- a structure collapsing from a blast of ecstasy.

She was your catcher in the rye.

She was the net that caught your body -- an object of flesh and bone that once fell from a cloudless sky.

And she loved you, Christopher.

So you smoke another cigarette and fill yourself with intoxicants -- the pseudo-killers of pain. And you run. Just run. Run until your feet blister and bleed. Purge yourself of regret. Run away from your mistakes.

But you know where she is.

Run.

And whom she is with.

Run.

He is there.

Just run.

And she is asleep.

Run.

Two sleeping bodies. Touching.

Just fucking run.

"I loved you, Christopher."

The words you once thought were impossible.

xx