10pm on a Tuesday

My dog is telling me to go to bed

but he has the same voice as my dead fiancé.

It scares Me.

I hear the echoes down the hall

and stumble to the kitchen

refusing to look into the bedroom again

I see bright pink blood spill to the floor.

My back against the wall;

I slide down

grasping at the now,

clawing out of the pit of the past.

Hearing the cries of my former self drives me to the corner.

Pain.

Like a wounded animal

Or a dying child,

I look down on him from the catwalk.

He looks too young,

face too smooth,

“why, damnit?”

I scream into my memories,

slamming the ice cold gin.

I stand up,

shaking the memories like a cold storm on the Atlantic in December.

Finding my dog on my bed, I pet his sweet head,

smiling as if I had come back from the dead.

Ice clinks in my full drink.

I pour it out.

What dreams may come tonight?

Written By William "Buck" Bolyard

August 18, 2021

William Bolyard is the author of “Sober Man’s Thoughts”. Originally from the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia, he now bounces around the world looking for the best place to have an adventure. After dropping out of college he lived in his van to learn how to write, which seemed like a good idea at the time. He is a veteran of Afghanistan and served 8 years in the Infantry.