The Greyhound

When I used to run, they called me the greyhound. When I was love-dumb, I boarded a greyhound every other weekend to sneak off to freedom of nicotine poisoning and things to sink teeth in. The ‘grey’ for the dog does not signify color, nor did my visits signify love or anything more than a strict need to run – they called me the greyhound: fast from the gun, long legs eating up ground like a combine, lean but quite striking, a flexible spine. But I lost my muzzle sometime when I moved – let it blow out a window or hide in a room that I lived in a while and won’t see again. Oh don’t you just hate it how everything ends? Now the greyhound refers more to the drink – 2 parts grapefruit, 1 vodka (I think). I think I’d rather drink it reversed and get enough down and see if the hurt from knowing I’m wasting my potential shrinks. But they did call me the greyhound once! For a while, at least.


~ by perfectionatrix on September 16, 2011.

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