"its like static," she said

and I cant remember why we're standing here.

but then the bottles smash together and infringe on my audial arena.

its not the ballerina twinkling of a windshield shattering, but more of a hollow grinding.

like an explosion in the absence of air.

like its been all used up.

"like fuzzy buzzing?" I ask.

"like snow" she answers.

and we both shudder.

because our feet are wet, slumping, from walking here in the April Chicago snow.

the kind that cancels baseball games.

the kind that cancels souls.

In that space, where the souls were before the snow, we replace emptiness with whiskey so as not to be so hollow.

like those goddamned bottles...