Written February 3, 2020.
Whiskey. It was a drink, yes, but in time he had come to learn that it was a color. A beautiful, haunting color that plagued his subconscious more often than he’d like to admit.
He just couldn’t stop seeing whiskey; seeing her.
God, she was beautiful. Infuriatingly so, to the point where he almost hated her as much as his heart ached for her. And it was because of that that he had made his decision to let her go.
But there she was, red tinted, golden hair splayed across the white pillow. His pillow. Washed in rays of bright sun that brought out the whiskey and made his heart beat a little faster. Maybe he was in over his head, but she was reaching out to him and he couldn’t find it in himself to refuse her.
He never should have said yes; never should have given in to what his heart was telling him. If he hadn’t he could’ve saved her. At least that’s what he thought.
The bed was cold now, as it typically was. His eyes drilled holes into the dark ceiling, a veil of smoke encircling his head from the cigarette between his teeth. He could practically hear her voice in his ear, admonishing him because “It’s a terrible habit. put it out, come on.” He would promptly put it out, of course, and pull her into his chest. She would complain about how he smelled like smoke but neither of them would move to get up. She was warm. The world was cold.
She was his sun. She would always be his sun. His whiskey.
But she was gone, and there was no one to tell him to put his cigarette out, so he smoked it until he couldn’t anymore and his lungs burned and then ground the bud into the ashtray on his nightstand with a little more gusto than needed.
She was his whiskey, the most addicting thing he had ever tasted, and he had forced himself to quit cold turkey. He needed to, for the sake of him and especially for her.
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