This room reeks of the spilled, forgotten drinks of lovers.
I feel her soft touch still lingering, in this ugly, painful forgetmenot blue embrace.
The fluorescent light hurls it's vulgar obscenities at me, a profuse apology which pales in comparison to my sins.
My covers scream of our untimely passions.
This monitor hums a low, gurgling snore as I dwindlingly, inexorably put the final words into their own, fated positions.
Nothing is as putridly love-stricken as a false meeting between two people who never were and never will be in love.
How quaint.
Time to reign in the new year, and forget.
Stella Artois was always a fickle potion for my own sickly fantasies, pinning their spinoffs to the ground with rusty, elderly tacks that refuse to stay tacked. Let's be honest, 'Angel' was never that great. Nothing ever was.
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