Comments | desirestreet: who cares:

desirestreet

who cares:

Mar 07, 2009 23:26

*She shrugs slightly as she drains the last bit of liquor from her glass. Placing it carefully on the table, as if her world would shatter should she even chip it ( Read more... )

heartache, role play, past regrets, mistakes

Comments 12

lonely_tyger March 8 2009, 06:11:19 UTC

I'd have you as company any day of the week. <3

lonely_tyger March 8 2009, 06:12:24 UTC

Also, less with the drinky, mkay? *pokes*

desirestreet March 8 2009, 12:22:03 UTC

Ooooooooo. Isn't that a small case of...pot.kettle.black? *smile*

lonely_tyger March 8 2009, 14:55:33 UTC

Well, when I drink, I don't get drunk. *chuckles* I drink socially. And I also, surprisingly, only drink about once a month. :P I'm no good to anyone if I'm drunk, I'd be sans-pants and singing loudly. Though, at times that's not a huge difference from me being sober... Okay, I'm shutting up now. %gt;.%gt;

Thread 10

cruzcoda March 9 2009, 09:09:15 UTC

There were a lot of places for men like me to be. Places where I could have gone to let hours slip past and care not a lick for them. Whore houses and bars, theatres and dance halls. Place where a man could forget his troubles and stop letting the world play Devil on his soul.

But I wasn't in any of those places. Nothin' there ever really caught my attention. They didn't hold a candle, proverbial or otherwise, to the hurts I felt every minute I was awake.

Of course, they also didn't have her With my back against the wall, arms hung limp at my sides, and the soft glow of a fresh cigarette casting its red, angry glow over my face, I watched her get up. Weak, pathetic, barely a husk of the woman I knew. Just the lifeless shell shambling along as if the world had left her behind. Talking to shadows and hoping they might talk back ( ... )

the weight of silence desirestreet March 27 2009, 15:01:47 UTC

Oddly, it was not the sound of his voice that brought her up short, but the scent of his cigarette. It hit her like a mack truck going 90 down an interstate. An odd blend of different tobaccos made especially for him. Like wood smoke on a crisp autumn night; The aroma tweaked her primordial memories hard enough to almost make her cry out in pain. His cigarettes were hand rolled, so she knew, knew without doubt, that he had to be near. Near enough to her that were she to turn and reach out her hand, he would be within close proximity of that appendage. She clenched her fists at her sides, fighting the urge to do exactly that ( ... )