At first I didn't even like you, I didn't even know who you were.
I was intrigued but not impressed, curious but not intense.
Then came the wine, the warmth of it spreading deep into my toes, touching even my frost-chilled fingers.
I didn't take the time to reasses, to think of sleep or even rest.
Full of selfish disregard for the coming dawn, I went with you and drank and danced.
Full of life, hot wet blood coursing through me quickening my heartbeat at your mention.
I threw away a lot to have that wine, to sit with you and drink it, a carefree drunk neglecting closing time.
When it was over, there was nothing left, like staring into the deep green glass of an empty bottle,
like turning it upside down hoping something, anything will drop out.
Lke digging in your back pocket for a couple dollars but finding only pennies instead, not enough for another.
Like flinging the bottle from a darkened rooftop, hearing the satisfying shatter on the asphalt below,
like a blissful evening that turned violent and angry before fading sharply into black.
Like being sober as the nights breaks into morning, when sun tips into bloodshot eyes.
Like piecing it all back together while you pretend you didn't smoke the entire pack of cigarettes,
like stumbling into the kitchen and throwing open the refrigerator,
like staring into the white cold nothingness that whirrs in response to your suggestion.
It's not like I wanted anything anyway, it's still full of nothing but condiments and empty promises.
Like holding the sides of cold porcelain and retching, feeling turbulent and fuzzy, unlikely feelings intertwined.
It's the waiting that's the worst.
And slowly you were gone, finally a dull headache somewhere near my forehead, a good night's sleep
pushed you away.
Even so, there's no hesistation when the question of repetition comes up.
Meet me for a drink, he'll say, a dark glance in a dark bar, or a smile in the middle of the afternoon, a firm
handshake on a Wednesday evening, dinner as an afterthought.
Of course.
