What can you make of a night when a drag of a cigarette lights up more meaningful memories than sitting alone in silence? When a long inhale makes you think of more earnest things you can do with your life than steady contemplation; when sobriety is a word you wish held more weight than the beer you hold in your hand.
Nights like this sink deeply into my midnight fingers. I try to conjure the words my sentimentalism wishes to portray. Maybe I fall short, like reaching for a bottle of wine that holds no more liquid, and the corner store has closed its doors, no more drink to fumble through, no more sudsy memories to create, a captionless image gone horridly quiet.
A siren calls somewhere in the distance, an ambulance rushing to someone in need. But whoever rushes to me? Who thinks of my smile, and all the times I have gone out of my way to make you laugh, or when I told you I would grab take out food because you had a long day?
Is there a mechanism that emotion cranks into, a lever pulled that will bring all the hurt into palpable silence?
Or do these nights scream, just a lengthy fucking exhalation, like oxygen isn’t good enough, the night puffing on pessimistic decline, because it tastes acidic enough to write about, deliberating on all the bad and forgetting to remember the good, like a comedy show, where no one can remember the jokes but can remember that they laughed, if only for a time, more clearly remembering the bad acts and how they got booed of the stage.
Have I become a sop? Do people ever think like me? Or has this moonless night played tricks on my suggestive mind, to the point where typing these wicked thoughts garners more silver than gold?