March 24, 2011

I lie in bed,
cuddled. Wit

trounces through my head
high on sex and drugs;
weed, caffeine mostly. Some
alcohol from cheap vodka
stored in a ginger ale container.


“That can’t be good for the
spirit,” I laugh, and drink the
stuff, in a shot, with a head

“Can’t you see her?” and my
eyes flash as the vodka hits

“Over there on the stool,”
“Which one–
Oh.” I want to stare at her
through those stairs, one
last time. Forget about the
time I tried to kiss you in
the pool. We were drunk,
and anyway you remember
incorrectly. I was not aroused.


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