The Morning After Songfest

I slept curled at the foot of my own bed where two hours earlier
you drunkenly confessed your love to me, recited poetry,
and drunkenly confessed your love to me again.
You hollered someone else’s ideas about warmth and healing
incomprehensibly in words that don’t exist yet.
Your shirt was wrongly buttoned, but you kept insisting otherwise,
saying, “is there any right way to wear a shirt?”
Yes.
And please don’t get me wrong when I say
I’ve always wondered what you’d look like in my bed.
There’s no time not to know. Listen to me.
I’m staring at you, trying to balance between
how long is appropriate to look at you
and how I can make up for all the lost time not looking at you
and the way you hold up books close to your face to read poetry
as if you are living in the moment right before a kiss that means something.
And I got it. Whatever people in love are getting, I got it.
You were right when you said, “the nights we don’t remember
will be the nights we don’t remember,”
though I don’t know which part of that is right,
because when I woke up to the polaroids of us that I don’t remember taking,
the only thing I know is that my face looks good when it’s pressed up against yours.

Forman, Puffy, Bam, & Kelso. Another Morning After Image.


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