It always happened like this. He would get home and collapse in a sprawl on the couch, drained and broken, not a thought to grace his mind – the couch supporting him the way he so sorely needed to be.

Rain pitter-pattered and tapped a cold dance on the dark windows of his old house, the roof leaked, the wiring was shot, the term ‘crap shack’ barely defined his fortress. It was the only place he felt completely safe in, alone and warm – sinking into the folds of his under-stuffed sofa

But being alone grants one only so much comfort. His rain-soaked hair covered his red-raw eyes. She had left him a month ago now and yet the peaceful serene of drunken stupor appealed to him, freed him, loved him in the absence of real feeling.

Tears seared his eyes still – love had broiled his heart and he sometimes wandered if he would (or could) ever use it again.

Brown liquid crossed his lips and his head flopped back – he faced the ceiling and nothing entered his mind. Nothing but her face.

And he wept.