Sloe Gin
Beneath the dim, fractured glow of the streetlights, he walks alone, caught in an unending loop of memory and regret. He feels tethered to silence, deep as the night, while the world spins around him. His gaze is fixed on the rain-slicked ground, where each puddle reflects fractured pieces of his past—faces, feelings, fleeting warmth, all slipping away like water through cracked pavement. The ache in his chest beats in time with the steady rhythm of rain; each drop echoes words left unsaid, apologies never given. In the hollow space between the droplets, regret pools beneath him, a haunting reminder of what he’s lost and what he’ll never find again.
Sloe Gin
Beneath the dim, fractured glow of the streetlights, he walks alone, caught in an unending loop of memory and regret. He feels tethered to silence, deep as the night, while the world spins around him. His gaze is fixed on the rain-slicked ground, where each puddle reflects fractured pieces of his past—faces, feelings, fleeting warmth, all slipping away like water through cracked pavement. The ache in his chest beats in time with the steady rhythm of rain; each drop echoes words left unsaid, apologies never given. In the hollow space between the droplets, regret pools beneath him, a haunting reminder of what he’s lost and what he’ll never find again.