Written: Spring 2012
Those mornings you wake up emotionally hung over,
the taste your slurred suggestion:
Let’s just be friends
still bitter on your tongue. As if he should have taken you seriously
thru a text message: U’s & SRY’s abbreviated.
Your thoughts, not so abbreviated, but as twisted as you,
waking up in your bed, wishing it were his,
with your clothes not quite on correctly, arm holes
reaching back to your backbone, jean buttons not aligned
with your belly button. Your hair plastered
to your face, damp, wiry, pungent.
Your hands shaking, curled, already
waiting for a bottle of something
sour to reach your fingers, your mouth.