The door slammed shut behind her, slammed shut, bouncing against the hinges, slammed shut on the pathetic arguments left trailing in her wake. BANG. A final piece of punctuation, aggressive, echoing through the tissue-paper thin walls that separate our apartments.
I take another slug of whiskey, sour and burning through the half-bottle haze. I take another slug of whiskey, as I juggle ten thousand potential conversations and a dozen outcomes. Juggling and shuffling the right words, shuffling them into their proper positions.
I take another slug of whiskey, and promise myself I’ll walk out the door behind her, tell her everything’s gonna be alright, that he’s an arsehole, that she should just forget about him.
Instead I take another slug of whiskey, and I sit on the floor.
The poet, in eternal repose.