John Patrick Robbins writes

The Sun Still Sets

It's been weeks since last I laid in this very same bed in which Susan and me spent so many nights together.

I hated it.

It was worn we got it together. Many things in this room we had collected from our time together, even the godammed dog that slept at the foot of the bed we got together.

I played it around others as if I didn't care.

Got drunk and returned to this fucking tomb of bad memories.

I missed her warmth I missed smelling her hair as we lay together.

Every turn reminded me she was gone.

Even the godammed bed mocked me!

She was a ghost now.

Gone forever and I the inmate sentenced to life rotting within this cell.

Freedom of mind meant erasing me from her existence.

She did that easily it was always easy for a beautiful woman.

Not so much for the worn old dog like myself.

I'd watch the window look out into the night and see the sunrise again.

Being drunk didn't help.
Being sober was something far worse.

I knew another would make the time pass far easier.

But I was getting older and my heart was stuck on this static tune.

Susan left a scar.

And I just counted sunsets.

She was a first class bitch.
And I lost in the madness that is love only for her.

I’m tired of counting.

 

Sleeping White and Brown Jack Russell Dog and Man in Tan Shirt on Burgundy Couch -- Clair Hartmann