The Bar at the End of the Road

It felt like a bullet to the head,
A pain of a memory,
Deep in the heart,
Raging in the brain,
Better off dead,
Found him face down,
In his pillow,
A song,
Beneath the willows,
Not enough whiskey
To kill that pain,
That memory.

Who stood at the back of the room?

He sat there, at the back of the bar, drinking his fifth whiskey, straight. 

Lies became the truth, like those memories, slowly fading in the distance, a small trip down the road, stumbling, catching the railing, up the stairs.

He fell into bed, drifted off into a weary sleep, fleeing from the nightmares of life, not wanting to wake up.

Tonight, that random night, good night, he felt his hand shaking, grabbing the glass.

She did so much better than him, but it still hurt, sitting there, at the bar, the place, those memories.

Sleep much?

The bartender slid him another drink, frowning at the mess of the man sitting there.

"Hello stranger?"

Hi.

Bye.

He stood up, stumble forward, tried to make it to the restroom, felt his lunch fighting with the booze, then blacked out, woke up face down, in his room.

Hello....

Bye....

Repeat the process.