Dedicated to a Changing World, just for the blog:
The first hit makes him think of hands. Hands like small stones, weighing down his pockets.
The second hit makes him think of eyes. Eyes that never let him see them cry, because of what that might do to him.
The third hit makes him think of lips. Lips that drink alone to forget, breathe out bloodless clouds into the silent air between them.
The fourth hit makes him think of hearts. Broken hearts that end him, piece by piece, for all the lies his lips told, all the secrets his eyes held back, and all the pain his hands brought.