Thursday, April 18, 2013

Whiskey and Cigarettes

Whiskey and Cigarettes

I'm in a sharing mood tonight. Every once in awhile I write something just not right for the project I'm working on. I save it, store it away for later. It may forever stay just that short piece, or one day have added words and feelings and become a brand new story. Rarely does it ever see the light of day, by anyone but me. I hold my writing very close to the chest, truly my baby. This one however, has always seemed to call to be shared ,I have weighed heavy on this. Going back and forth between letting it see light, or as with the others holding it for safe keeping. Even as I type this blog out, I'm undecided. I guess a bit of a "leap of faith" is in order here.

So here's to taking that leap. I hope you like it.

whiskey and cigarettes:

I let the cigarette burn to ash in the tray, my last one of the pack. The Jack teasing me with its slowly melting bottle, using a glass didn’t seem fitting. Tonight was a straight from the bottle night, the slow burn from the whiskey easing some of the pain from the day. The radio playing softly in the background, I faintly heard the song…mine. I remembered all the nights that song played, the memories and moments it brought, both good and bad. I take another swirl from the bottle, the memories of her still not drowned.

It was her or the music, the band would play on without me... her I wasn’t so sure I could live without. She was tired of the road and wanted me home, I was married to the music and the musty worn out bars. The choice it seemed had been made for me, as my messy scrawled out note was all I was leaving her. That and the music, she would always have the music. Notebooks filled with drunken midnight confessions, and declarations of promises I had long since failed to keep.

The radio played on like my memory did. The whiskey no longer burning, and my cigarette long since stubbed out. What once was our song, now just another sappy guitar strained song to the mix. The meaning and the life it once held gone with her, leaving just a melody and a bottle of Jack. She told me it was her or the music, not knowing she was my music. How I loved coming home and seeing her body laid out before me, like a fine tuned guitar, and how I loved playing every curve of her. Making music with the sounds we made, how waking up next to her, made the times on the road all the more worth the time away.

Another dark lit bar, another show, another cold motel room, and another empty bed. The whiskey and beer would flow, the music would be played, the memories relived. The same motions that have happened for years, losing there luster with every squeak of the tires hitting the road. Age and loneliness creeping up on all of us. The music stops sounding the same, the faces never changing, the memories still hurting.

They say a good musician knows when his time has come, when to let the music live on without him. My time has come and passed. The whiskeys warmed now. A notebook still left blank, begging to be touched, for music to be created on its blue lined pages. Words wrote and erased, blue lines fading with history. No music will be made tonight, no new memories will be remembered. An empty whiskey bottle and burnt out cigarettes, replace the gentle stroke of a guitar.

Tonight’s the last show, for the band will play on without me. The music now played in honor of not just her memory. A single cord will sound as my exits made. No more late night shows in musty bars, no more cold motel rooms with the beds left empty.

Just a memory, a sad song on the radio, a worn guitar, and whiskey and cigarettes.