In My Writing, I Want To Be

I Knew Every Raindrop By Its Name.

When He Was Dry, He Believed It Was Alcohol He Needed, But When He Had A Few Drinks In Him, He Knew It Was Something Else, Possibly A Woman; And When He Had It All -- Cash, Booze, And A Wife -- He Couldn't Be Distracted From The Great Emptiness That Was Always Falling Through Him And Never Hit The Ground.

Memories Assailed Him Of How Gently She Had Spoken, Touched, And Moved; Of How She'd Loved Him Fiercely Despite His Mistakes And Obsessions And Weaknesses. And The Conviction Descended On Him That Love Like Theirs Couldn't Possibly Suffer Any Change.

Sometimes I Heard Voices Muttering In My Head, And A Lot Of The Time The World Seemed To Smolder Around Its Edges. But I Was In A Little Better Physical Shape Every Day, I Was Getting My Looks Back, And My Spirits Were Rising, And This Was All In All A Happy Time For Me. All These Weirdos, And Me Getting A Little Better Right In The Midst Of Them. I Had Never Known, Never Even Imagined For A Heartbeat, That There Might Be A Place For People Like Us.

That World! These Days It's All Been Erased And They've Rolled It Up Like A Scroll And Put It Away Somewhere. Yes, I Can Touch It With My Fingers. But Where Is It?