The Morning After

I drink pineapple juice to detoxify myself. 100% del monte, fiber-enriched. I stare at the mess of last night, postponing the clean-up. That’s always what sucks about a party, innit? Grabbing the broom, mopping it all up, the spills of gin and sprite and other fluids. I shuffle cards, replaying french films that I don’t understand because they have no subtitles. I wonder how come I always lose in solitaire. It’s a one-man game where we play against the unforgiving hand of fate.

Then I check my phone and I see your name. Four forty-nine in the am. I can barely read what you wrote, is this even english or a facsimile of sorts? Are you checking up on me? I want to forget you. You’re making it hard – or at least not easy, not at all, well, maybe not for you. I want to forget how you could always make me laugh when I need it most, how you could still chuckle even if I act like a big bratinella, how you refuse to let me play with your beard.

What is up with your beard? I can barely remember it – how long was it? Did I touch it last night? Did my lips graze over it? Last night was the first time we’ve kissed since last year. I still remember last year. The details are hazy but for some reason, you’re not. It was a deep inhale and a silent prayer on my part as we climbed upon the bed. You’re better now – I don’t think I am. I savored the taste of your saliva, mingled with alcohol, nicotine and marijuana. Do I need to wait another year before I kiss you again?

I don’t want to want you – or perhaps, I want to not want you. If it makes any difference. It probably doesn’t, maybe not to you. To me, then? Did you dream of me as well when you went home? I dreamed of you, I can’t remember though. We were playing a game but maybe was that part of what we were doing? Slap me now, maybe I dreamt it all.

Maybe one time we can laugh about it and maybe then your kisses would be as meaningless as mine. The passers-by would no longer look when we kiss on the balcony. No drunk friend would be passed out on the other bed. Then maybe. Perhaps then, I wouldn’t wake up regretting you – how I wish I could have held you before you left even for one split second of pretense. Perhaps I could enjoy your kiss and not you. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like a black hole where all the junk is slowly crushing in, the right brain missing you, the left forgetting you.

Maybe. But then again, maybe not.

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