We broke up on a tuesday last summer. The breeze started to feel cold, not warm. My bed was more attracting. The summer lasted too long, too hot, too sunny, too sweaty, and to much shaving to do. The clubs were sad since everyone had locked in for the one. My friend Angelina, also named the wine addictor would visit me throughout the long days. Not so much the cold ones since her car would freeze, but tried to. She carried a bouquet of some sort to me as a way to forcefully get in. She could also pick the lock, or unlock the door, or even enter the pin. She sometimes would, and when she would it would scare the holy spirits out of me. My apartment never had much of a feel to it. I moved to a cottage in Louisiana for some reason out of the blue and my broken heart.

(DRAFT)