Memory

There's a reason that it's Men who sing the blues.
Nights that begin first with the bottle or glass in hand long before the guitar or mic, night after night in bars with cheap drink specials and uninterested audiences.

Prophetic dreams are left for interpretation by the wise and marginally schizophrenic.
Hesitant to use the word "haunting" because "haunting" implies that the thing in question is frightening or malicious, especially when it comes to dreams of memories.

Everything. My life, my endeavors, everything I touch.

It's a brightly lit hallway.

It's a bit long and everything at the end of it is at a distance, but I can still make out most of it.

Eyes skyward, the stars have never been so bright while whiskey stained breath materializes in the chill of winter nights.
Maybe I think of you in some cliche and melancholy way, like how you're looking at the same moon as I am.
Maybe tonight I managed to get your memory out of my mind.
Maybe.
But always I'll look to the low hanging sun through my morning headache and sunglasses and think of you.