The candles flicker as the ancient fan pushes stale summer air around the room. The flame light picks out the gold trim of the scotch label, the cold sweat of icy glass glitters in the warm dark.
The burn of the single malt tickles my throat, sharp inhale as the sweet golden liquor rushes over my palette. Song changes, singer’s raspy tones tell sad tales of forlorn women and dark love…a grim smile creeps across my lips as I silently mouth the words, no sound escaping my throat.
My voice has done enough damage for one day.
A primal sensation as I sit watching the flames dance, I move with the licks of light body swaying in the silence, broken by occasional tremors of sorrow. The music of the night, silence echoes through my body, silent tears run freely, silent mourning for something that never was… will never be.
Today I lost. Tonight I mourn. Tomorrow I heal.
Believe me, it is no time for words when the wounds are fresh and bleeding.
- George C. Lorimer