Peaches
I watched the sun set today. As that big fiery ball of life slid down off the edge of the horizon, I found a tear sliding down my cheek. It's been almost twelve years since Peaches left. Sure, she was nothin but a no-good ho bag stripper, but we had it good. I remember one afternoon watching the sun set with her, sitting on a metal folding chair in her aunt's backyard in Van Nuys doing lines of coke off an old George Michael 45. Now those were the days. The sun never shone so brightly. It reminded me of her hair--orange, fuzzy, and smelling burnt. Damn. Things got bad quick after that. She started hassling me all the time, telling me I was droppin too many ludes, not paying enough attention to her. She said all I cared about was the band, the music, myself. I told her to fuck herself, go back to dancing if she didn't like it. She started to cry, threw her glass of orange juice against the wall, and left. She came back the next day to get her stuff, but I was passed out on a floaty in the pool. I never saw Peaches again, and I don't often think about her. But every time I see a sunset...