August 1, 2012

THE MORNING

Still reminds me of you.

We're not supposed to talk about it and as far as anyone is concerned, it never happened. / I'll kill you if you tell anyone. / I'll pretend this tick mark was written in dry-erase and conveniently rub it off with a wipe of my thumb. Dust off the fuzzy remnants from the pen on the side of my jeans and relish in the stark white emptiness of what's in front of me. Clean slate. This is what I'm used to and this is what I'll accept. Not some lapse in judgment of how many sips I can handle and how many whiskey shots I can down with a straight face. (One, for the record. Whiskey has never been my drink of choice). Amidst hazy memories of sideways smiles, flirty gestures, and the clinking of champagne glasses, I'll stow this memory away in my box of 'forget-me-sooner-than-nots'. / Up early the next morning and scramble to my phone to assess the damage. All deleted, wiped clean. Drunk me is quite the ninja. I shower, get dressed, step onto my balcony and breathe in the early morning air. What an intoxicating dream I had last night- touch so warm if I didn't know better, I could have sworn it was real.

I wish I could repeat some mornings as easily and as often I could this song.

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