Midnight is when her mind wanders the most. When she has time to think about the world and her place inside of it.
All I know is that it’s 9 PM on the day after, and I haven’t heard from you since.
You’re staying up until 2 AM for the wrong reasons. Because you’re wasted. Because you’re heartbroken. Because you’re bored and lonely and scrolling through social media until you’re forced to surrender to sleep.
I get my best ideas when I am with you. Maybe if more people were with you, they would get more good ideas, too. I’m convinced that anyone worth his or her chops has at least one date with you per week. You encourage my crazy thoughts enough to make brilliant new ideas, but you also keep me in check when I might be getting a little too out there.
I sit here, in my own cold queen-sized bed, alone. Unintentionally catching the stale mixed smell of your cigarette and Jameson. But oh, was it so worth it.
I really can’t care anymore because, according to my ma, I only have about 20 good years left in me.
The romantic, sensual breeze embodied the sweet smell of cheap vodka and regret, which is
all too familiar. You commanded the room in your toga, constructed tastefully with dorm room
bed sheets with stains on them that I will not speculate about, accessorized with the expected
but nonetheless classic red solo cup.
The departures board in the train terminal is an imposing thing. It’s your only source of information in the whole place. Ticket holders stand there staring, waiting for the shuffling clicks of its mechanism.
Sign up for a free trial of something that you’ll forget to cancel, thus earning yourself a full-blown membership.
“Hey darling,” with a pat on the hip and then an inappropriate amount of lingering after the pat, “Another Jack and Coke, if you would!” (You’ll want to tell him you wouldn’t. You’ll get the damn drink anyway, and try to smile).