Right now the sorrow won. A sucker punch of self doubt. I'm in bed, naked and aching from the needle sharp pains that seem to living in every joint. She's gone, up north, running away from her own demons, to towns and places where she can forget her face. How can I forget that face? Those witchy eyes and that cinnamon skin and the way her laughter reminded me of a cool spring morning. Im sure she's forgotten about me. I'm lost in a sea of motorcycle batboys and painter fishermen, children in the guise of men, bold in their ignorance but ever so flash. At least that's what I tell the sorrow. That's why I didn't see that rock fist of loneliness slam in to my face and drop me on the street. What I won't tell the sorrow is that I was lonely before the motor boys and tanner tanned fishermen picked her up and took her north. That I was already lonely and she was already leaving long before she was gone. The truth is, as I lay her bare as a sun bleached bone, a crab with out it's shell, that's why I held on, because I was lonely
