I wanted to call you when I was drunk and
my fingers were curled tightly around the empty can(s)
and I took little furtive glances at my phone like we
shared some sort of shitty little secret
like we could whisper to each other if it
was safe: and the funny thing, it was.
I talked aloud anyway, feeling a little
ridiculous as i tasted your name on my tongue
feeling alive but only barely so and I wanted
to wake up in a world where you weren't
so fucking stupid and I wasn't so fucking
presumptuous but that is neither here nor there.
I have only seen you in the flesh once,
but that has given me plenty of times
to think of your hands picking
clementines in the spring. As though
light flows when I'm around you, and
it did; for a short time, anyway. I'm so
tired and I think you are, too. My darling,
I joke, in my head, which is funny,
considering that I'm not in love,
nor will I ever be.
