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Staying at an isolated hotel made me crazy.
I was all alone, in a town so empty, with a heart so shattered and twisted in a garden of dying.
Three empty bottles sit beside me, as another sits in hand that is almost clear of liquid.
My throat feels dry and itchy, but the sensation of bitterness from the liquor I drink runs through my body like the adrenaline I experienced when I was with you.
I wonder what you are doing right now, on a night of peace and quiet.
Maybe you are watching the show that we used to watch together on Thursday nights like these.
Maybe you are cooking dinner for one, or maybe you are out with friends, kissing some other guy that wasn't me.
I sit against the kitchen counter of my room, thinking deeply about you and your smile, as lights flash against the white curtains, irritating me.
I squint at the bright blare, and out of anger, I throw the glass bottle across the room, watching the broken fragments of glass fly into the air.
Tears escape my eyes and I scream, hands making their way to my hair, my face, the stained white shirt I wore.
But it's okay, I think.
It will all be okay.
I tumble my way toward the hotel door, crawling and falling on the glass shards like it was carpet.
With cuts against the denim jeans you bought me that Saturday afternoon last summer, the pain I am supposed to feel from the warm blood slowly tracing my skin is instead numbness, and until I reach the doorknob, I am still crying and screaming hysterically.
When I open the door to find the bright lights had disappeared, I stand up on two feet, strolling through the empty parking lot of the hotel.
I glance at the yellow street light that brightened up the bus stop, and the motorcycle that had been parked outside room 12 for three days now.
My mind is swirling with so many memories of us lying in bed laughing, walking around the park holding hands, and smiling at each other at the breakfast diner at 3 am in the morning.
So many moments of me playing with your hair, calling you different flower names each morning I woke to your being.
By the time I have almost thought of all the time we had spent together in a year and a half, my awareness of the surrounding area becomes hazy, my eyes closed, or they aren't and I just don't see anything.
I don't even know that my feet lead me toward the road, before the concrete against my bloody feet feels cold against my skin.
And until I do realise, it's already too late.
The blue flower back at my hotel room is dead.
Dead, like this love you always thought would last.
