by N. God Savage
You were halfway across the parking lot when I caught up with you, swirling dementedly, a hideous dervish to my frustrated anchor. From a distance, you seemed nothing more than an unruly drunk, too much too young, carried home, thrown up, slept off, moved on. I’d have given anything for that to be the case as I caught up with you: anything for a look of recognition to fill the hollow sickness that suffused me. I’d already seen that dead-doll stare a hundred times, but when I grabbed you and spun you round it caught me as deeply and as sharply as the first. I felt it as a clinging vacuum in the pit of my guts. If only you could sleep this off.
N. God Savage is a writer and philosopher from Belfast, Northern Ireland. Links to his blogs can be found here.