Until then, Cheers

I still talk about you when I'm drunk. And I'm beginning to suspect that my drinking companions are starting to tire of it. My hands are growing too weak to continue punching walls and doors; trying to make some way back into your life. My call log is flooded with second long dials to a number I'm not even sure is still yours. The weight of my unspoken words hindering an already slurring tongue. Cowardice, it seems, is my savior. Bravado a brutal demon. My favored hand hurts as I write this. I guess I need to manifest the internal into the external. The emotion to physical reminders. Or remainders. Like some terrible human equation that I can't seem to figure out. I used to be good at math. I used to be good at a lot of things. Or at least better than I am now. But things change don't they? People change. I know you did. I'm hoping I will too.