Very many things in my head, begging to  be written.
Even many more things in my head asking to remain hidden.
So I sit in my lounge in solemnity, a single light bulb illuminating me and my brown leather couch.
I roll a stick of an unlit cigarette in my mouth absentmindedly, listening.
The wind howls outside incessantly, spindly tree trunk fingers tapping on my windows.
“Gosh I pity whomever is stuck outside in that storm” I murmur,  closing my eyes.
Pain lances in my head and I wince sucking in breath and the paper wrapping of the death on my lips.
It’s nights like these I hate.
Nights when my mind refuses to stay silent.
It’s nights like these I miss you most dearly.
My eyes stray to the singular picture framed and hanging above the mantlepiece and I exhale slowly, imagining a billow of smoke obstructing your smiling face forever frozen in print.
What is love that we should feel it so deeply?
What is death that we should hate it so dearly?
What is oblivion that I should crave so badly?
I clear my throat.
Nobody warns you.
Nobody warns you it would be like this, this business of affection.
It’s like selling a part of your soul with hopes you may get another soul that matches the hole left behind in yours perfectly.
Nobody warns you about how good it would feel, just watching another person smile, a faraway look in their eyes.
And nobody warns you how you would feel, realising that smile is never going to be there.
A practiced reach for the phantom at the other side of the bed and grasping at nothing.
And at that moment, that split second, the hole in your chest expands, swallowing everything in its path, consuming you.
Pressure builds inside and you feel your ears pop. 
You’re trapped in a bubble filled with water,  slowly drowning.
And you’re aware of every watery moment.
For that split second, you realise something about yourself.
You want to die.
And that realisation stays with you after the hole shrinks back to its original size.
So 9am and you’re on your fourth glass of brandy.
By 2am,  you’re sitting in the lounge like me, simulating smoking with hands that have performed the action over 60 times less than a day ago.

“Gosh, I feel sorry for whomever is trapped inside during this storm” I murmur.
There’s no stepping out, to clear my head.
So, I sit here, trapped in a warm prison of memories and silence.

I clear my throat again.
Gosh, I need a stiff drink.
I’m not crying, I swear.