Rash Decisions (3)

I live on rash decisions.

Tempranillo driven, I'd

rather my days have

nowhere to go but

down. Not like Lucy.

I used to run to her crying

with a bottle of wine and

a bowl. I'd relay things

said to me: F*****g w***e.

Go back to your f*****g

castle in Oklahoma.

She would commisserate,

but really it only confirmed

what she's been sure of for

so long. And I just go back to

craving something that lasts

longer than the song

that's stuck in my head.