Liquid

I know it's Monday but they're all the same to me. There are no weekends in this acidic life, seasons change outside but it happens gradually, the transition is less abrupt. There's no circle, no beginning or end, nothing ever starts all over like I sometimes wish it would.

When I was little, mother still wanted things for me. My dreams meant something to her until our existence collapsed that fall between day and night. The morning after smelled like winter, she disappeared behind her sunglasses and we both stopped talking to each other.

She came home yesterday after months away somewhere without me. I never ask, she puts her coat on a hanger, her shoes beside her bed and everything slowly returns to normal. Whatever that is.

"You should drink more" she says, looking at the empty Gin bottle in the kitchen. It's the way we talk now, the morning smells vaguely of snow and Cartier de Lune.