Straws

Lately, the only honest, non-stilted writing I do is when I am all-a-drink-a-roo. It is not good or safe or peaceful; it is rarely inspired. But this is something I scribbled last night, this is some piece of my soul as I grasp at familiar-but-fading straws:

The closest you'll have to something upon which to depend is the mist of your favorite perfume on your wrist. Perhaps then you won't feel so alone under the covers, resting your head against your arm (skinonskin) in the dark. When it fades too soon, you press the glass edge of the empty bottle to your veins, not even a drop left to spray, hoping to catch some scent upon your skin.

It's gone. All. Gone.

YOU ARE ALONE.