Whiskey Nights and Neon Dreams

The memory of Josiah DeMille has haunted me for close to a decade.

The way he looked.

The way he smelled.

The way his lips felt pressed against mine, even when they shouldn't have been.

The one person I've never been able to get over.

The one singular part of my past I've never been able to move on from.

In every lyric sung into the microphone, in every chord strummed on the guitar, in the bottom of every single whiskey bottle, he's there.

His memory has me in a chokehold.

His absence a gaping hole...