a party at the end of route 525
on the first friday of the fourth month
i find myself alone with the bottle and everyone
and i decide to play a drinking game:
every time i drink, i drink.
and when i turn slurred, sink into the couch
and fold myself into the shapes of past mistakes
your unblinking bored eyes
halo mine from across the room
and we turn towards each other
like flowers keeping secrets from the sun.
i don’t want to fuck.
i want to meet you later
in some weird white bedroom
where we undress ourselves
and you tell me a story
about pretending to have skin cancer in third grade
because you wanted to be different.
tell me all the stories your mouth doesn’t make
when you hold a red plastic cup
in circles of lopsided cigarette grins.
our teeth touch
and we whisper vague, emotional words in the dark
that we know won’t come up in the morning.
it’s like singing a song into a cereal bowl
or slipping in the shower-only the invisible things are around when it happens.