After 11

After 11.

I remember when we would drink and I’d smoke and we’d never watch T.V. Back then I didn’t own a T.V. I didn’t want one. We’d just drink in this living room. On a couch that has since gone curb side. You’d sit and listen and I’d ramble on. Tell Stories. Drink out in the back yard. The cat would come out to see what we were up to. Now she’s gone too. Buried in the yard. She’s out there now. And I’m alone on a different couch. Same room. Same apartment. Same booze. You are, God knows where. Funny. You exist. So too the cat’s bones, but no longer God. Never did. My poor little kitten. Her poor little heart. Poor little life. Her bones and her flesh will not be remembered, if not by me. One day I will be in the ground too. And who will remember any of us.

About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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