Older again, yet again. Memories as ghostly companions, sorrowful companions. Teasing with brutal longing, cruel with ghastly illusion, and yet, still welcome friends. Another tick on the calendar, another one stubbed out, squashed underneath a yellow fingernail. Blue smoke swaying, drifting towards a tight crack in the window. Cold night greedily grabbing hold, erasing with easy indifference. Faded hope lingers, like final dregs from that good bottle of red, bitter on the tongue, harsh reminder.
Another round coming right up says the spectral companions, another year lies in wait, another broken horizon in store. Bring on that bottle I reply, let’s drink from it, let’s spill on our shirts while shouting at the moon, naked, yet unafraid.
And so it goes.