So you know

Every morning we pull into the same carpark. stub out our ciggys on the same patch of concrete wall below the no-smoking sign, and push open the heavy doors to the detox clinic. Each day I turn the same water-cooler's plastic lever, foolishly hopeful. Empty. Get swept to a small room through corridors of clutter by a fashion struck young nurse with a nervous too-easy smile and a soft voice. There are three nurses and they are all this way. We sit hands in lap as the opiates dissolve under our tongues. Yes, it's anther detox.

Another fucking detox.

Typing those words something pangs.

Round and round on the merry-go-round. Failure a pit-stop I can't seem to avoid. In fact, I've almost come to expect it, and accept it, with a sickly relief.

Lets keep our minds away from that. Driving home we know where we will stop, heads bowed counting our coins together, linked in routine, nothing needs to be said anymore. It used to be this way with morphine. Now bourbon and colas in the closest park, staring at the blue sky through the leaves.

At some point the day shifts out of focus and another begins.