I find myself drinking away your memory every Saturday night when my friends have just gone home. Your ghosts still linger here, as if you never left. And I wash you down with every bottle, erasing your name, erasing your touch, erasing every bit of memory I have of you left. But the only thing I have the next day is another round of bottles, trying to drown the headache.
YOU ARE READING
Trinkets
PoetryIf you want to read without the commitment, this is the perfect book for you. You can open it and read a few excerpts once in a while, or you can read it in one go. The entries here have various themes which may confuse readers as it confused the wr...
