Two Writes Don't Make A Right.
I've allowed my blog page to become an empty wine glass left atop a mantle and forgotten. The lip stick smears are still there as are the faint traces of oily fingerprints all around the belly of the glass, but the contents have long been downed and the good time that followed is nothing more than a sex stain on bedroom sheets. Where have I been, you might ask? Around, I would answer. Around this town like a lonely lover looking for a warm place to stay each night. Sure, I still have my own place, but these walls seem so much closer now and I feel somewhat claustrophobic. My place was already small enough before the walls started closing in, now it's damn near impossible to breathe. My cat, however, doesn't seem to mind one bit. Actually I take that back, he does mind me being gone all the time. He sits by the door waiting for me to return while I'm out on the town seeking friendships, aka, full glasses of wine. I deleted my account profile at All Poetry. I had been a