I stare at the death of those city lights. Cloudy green eyes that trace the outline of my past so clearly that I shudder for a long second. Memory, what a twisted fabrication of our own haunts.

He recollects it all differently, but I can not argue the biology of a human brain. And so I let the dust settle at the bottom of that wine bottle.

I strip myself of all blame, down to the very bones that built me. The elements teased it all out of me – every fragment of composure, beautifully wrapped for the world to steal. I regress, as though Time has not taught me the pieces to a perfect conversation.

I miss what my mind chooses to remember. And as it belongs to a devil beyond my reign, memories both wild and cruel continue to plague my steps up and down those old bar stairs.

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