The National on Thursdays

Just leave the whiskey where it is.

Can you really justify having the final word, when all that springs from your mouth is like ash in mine? I can’t remember the last time we exchanged truth, in the backalleys of the subordinate backyard. No, I’m lying – I do remember. It was a cold January twilight, replete with august winds and devoid of apology.

Exile. Vilify.

We spoke of demons in the dark, of what really went on behind the scenes and why it was we could never reach common ground. We’ve been planes apart, moving through fire and shadow and coming out separate from the schisms of time. The green gloves you wore that day still echo in my mind’s eye. Do you really think nothing could’ve gotten to you in the end?

I got to you. I got to the core of your error, the issue that drove you with the fear of God behind it. I exposed the vital flaw and immediately regretted, because it was the day you died for me. It was that timeless moment where thought and reason evacuated and ceased to matter.

Exile. Vilify.

But then you juxtaposed – a wasp nest in the cherry tree, saying “Baby, we’ll be fine”. You never understood the boxer in me, your papercup martini crushed to nothing in my withered hands.

The Christmas carols seemed so hollow then.

Exile. Vilify.

Don’t even try.

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