The suitcase I brought with me still sits in the hallway. Forlornly, I might add. It throws whispers my way, desperate murmurs to put it back in its rightful place in the cupboard above the fridge. The fridge is pathetic in its emptiness. In intentional avoidance, I haven't gone to the grocery. Lately, it seems, when I find myself in one, I can think of nothing to buy but wine and beer, especially that wine. The bottle of wine, emptied of its sweet, tangy contents is nestled in a curio so special, it reminds me of the time I tried but desperately failed.
The few and far in between I've tried, I carry them like scars, beautiful sorrows that lightly linger in the daylight, make themselves furiously felt at night.
The few and far in between I've tried, I carry them like scars, beautiful sorrows that lightly linger in the daylight, make themselves furiously felt at night.
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