I stole my first real breath in the whisper of that perfume.  A scent powerful enough to loiter for decades.  A fragrance capable of surviving cold bottles.  And of sparking heated battles inside the furnace of old sin.


I catch hints of it in my blackout dreams. Or during my sobering nightmares.  It lingers there, hard and unapologetic.  No matter what I smoke.  Or drink.  Or fuck.  It reaches out across the memory of wasted years to remind and rekindle as I struggle to breathe free.


Instead, I am left alone to suffocate in the crush of stubborn recollection.


In desperation, I take to the low company of high-proof co-conspirators.  I hide inside polished words.  And scribbled prescriptions.   Anything to mask the sting of awareness.   Anything to catch a single meaningful breath in a world coughing itself out of relevance.


Because it is impossible to live clean in a state of constant pollution.   


So I intentionally add a variety of poisons to help hasten the toxic tipping point.    Ingesting death in measured doses.   Tripping through the drudgery of existence on the back of neatly stamped dosages.  Because in the midst of fostering self-destruction, it becomes easy to collect labels.  


And labels have a tendency to stubbornly stick.


Writer.   Heart-breaker.  Loser.  Liar.  Boozebag junkie slut.  I have borne many names.


But they are just more words.  And words lose their meaning right before the fall.   So it becomes impossible to trust their sincerity.


My first breath was caught in the whisper of that youthful perfume.  My last will rattle in celebration of reunification.


Because I still miss the smell of her on my skin.  


And I’d give anything to have that back for a single dance.


About Grey Fox, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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