The Things You Taught Me

They say to put the bottle down, that I’ll forget my own name before I forget yours. But the thing is, water doesn’t burn quite like whiskey. And I know I miss you, I know I will today, tomorrow, for a while. But missing you tastes better at the bottom of a bottle. One drink won’t fix me at all, nor will two or three, and I know that alcohol won’t erase you. But the thing is, it’s going to hurt tomorrow either way. Might as well feel a different kind of pain. So, please, shut up and pour it strong. Because I know, for right now, drinking helps. Water won’t.

I see the irony, no need to point it out. You searched for peace at the bottom of a bottle, looked for calm in green bowls and happiness on ski trips that you never quite seemed to be able to give up. It’s part of why I am here now, drinking whiskey with strangers because water won’t help. Yes, I see the irony. No, I do not need to hear it again.

But you taught me so many other things too. You taught me that pleasure is about more than pleasing who I am with. You taught me that loving someone isn’t just a combination of letters, but that it’s the way they hold you when you fall asleep during a movie, the way they know when Thai food is what you need and when it is a burrito. You showed me heaven, you taught me to find it in little moments.

But you also made me feel like hell. You taught me that although actions speak louder, words can still break you. You taught me that my body seems to have a sheer infinite amount of tears to spare and that pain isn’t always visible on someone’s skin. Sometimes it only shows in their eyes. You’re the one that taught me that pain won’t just fade, you have to burn it away. And water doesn’t burn quite like whiskey.