It’s 7 pm on a Sunday night and I’m already drunk. Fingerprints clouding the glass surface of the wine glass I’m gripping so affectionately. Box of wine not out of hand’s reach. This buzz was something I’ve been craving all day, and no matter how much I drink my glass doesn’t seem to be getting any less full. My soft skin flushed from the tinge of cabernet making its way through my bloodstream, caressing each and every dark corner of my insides. Kissing me in places I forgot existed until I felt your mouth on them.
I drink too much sometimes, and tonight my phone isn’t lighting up with your name so I’m drinking just a little bit more.
I already regret writing this.
I’m thinking about you and all the things I’d give to be laying in your bed once more. To be getting high off your smell. To be picking your brain and hanging onto your every word. Talking about what happens after death. Listening to the stories behind each of your tattoos. I’m not a selfish person, but when it came to listening to you I wanted to hear everything you had to say. I wanted as much as I could get. I could have listened to you talk for hours.
I’m thinking about how your green eyes would look so deeply into my brown ones, making me blush and giggle and bury my face in your chest. I’m thinking about your smooth fingertips on my skin igniting a fire. Each one burning brighter than the last. Each one burning just a little bit longer.
That’s how it was when an Aries and a Leo came together. Flames would immediately ignite and burn in rage and anyone not smart enough to shield themselves from the heat would be left burned. This scene was home to me, my skin just barely healed from the last fire it came into contact with.
See, the smoke from the flames was so familiar to me. Its smell relentlessly clinging onto my hair and skin. Just like the smoke from your cigarette. American Spirits. Light blue.
A cigarette. That was how it all began with us anyway.
I was just a little bit too drunk, though that’s nothing unfamiliar with me. All bloodshot eyes and slurred words. And you were there. All green eyes and smile. At the right place at the right time. Or maybe it was never the right time for us. That’s something I’m still trying to figure out. Maybe in another dimension, it would have been right for us. Maybe if there wasn’t a her. Or maybe this thing was never supposed to make it past empty promises and heavy breathing in the dark.
You handed me a cigarette, we exchanged numbers, and before I could even fully make it through my front door you were telling me to stick around. Asking me to take my chances with you because you “weren’t like anyone else.”
And just like that you found your way into my orbit and flipped my world upside down.
And you were right. You weren’t like anyone else. You had me turning into a puddle within hours. Getting butterflies every time I saw your name light up on my phone.
And I gave into you. I did things I promised myself I wouldn’t do. We spent our first night together watching a movie in your bed. And I had every intention of things ending there. With my head on your shoulder and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind playing on your tv. But then you started kissing me and kisses turned into touches and for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. You climbed on top of me and I still couldn’t say no. I couldn’t stop you. I didn’t want to stop you.
My hair was balled up in your fist and your lips were on my neck. Then my collarbones. Then down there. Then it was just skin on skin and heavy breathing and I wasn’t sure how things had gotten to that point so quickly but something about it felt so damn right and I couldn’t stop you. I didn’t want to stop you.
And I loved every second of it.
And each night was the same. Putting on a movie which would turn out to be nothing more than background noise trying so desperately to be heard over our conversations. Our words pouring out faster than the wine you kept pouring into our glasses.
I learned things about you, and you me. Our thoughts collided so beautifully and escaped through the crack in your blinds into the darkness of the night. All warm breath fogging up the cold air. Making their way up to the stars and painting the night sky in all our hopes and dreams. The night sky that was all too familiar with the two of us, since nothing we had ever seemed to survive in the light of the day.
Eventually, we’d throw Mac on shuffle and end the night in each other’s arms. Hours upon hours of heavy breathing and sweat-slicked skin. Your face looked so good between my thighs. Your taste so salty on my tongue.
Your body became my home.
And there were flickers of doubt that had danced across my mind. I had seen this scene a hundred times and knew it was too good to be true. I knew it was cheap. But you told me exactly what I wanted to hear and promised me you wouldn’t be going anywhere.
And there I was, too much naivety in my bones to hear the dishonesty in your voice.
See, if I knew that things were going to end up the way they did I would have asked for just one more cigarette in your car. I would have let it burn long and slow. Fighting the urge to take another drag just so that I’d have an excuse to stay there in your passenger seat for just a little bit longer. My scarf blanketing our legs as the 30-degree temperature air seeped in through your windows we kept cracked so we could exhale the smoke from our lungs.
If I knew that things were going to end up the way they did I wouldn’t have asked you about your ex. I wouldn’t have introduced the thought of her so easily into your mind. I would have played it cool, trying to ignore the fact that I knew you still talked to her on a regular basis. That the stars she put into your sky hadn’t quite burned out just yet.
If I knew things were going to end up the way they did I would have ordered just one more beer at the bar that night. Would have insisted on playing just one more game at Dave and Buster’s. Would have asked to lay in your arms for just five more minutes that morning you dropped me off before going to get your tattoo. That was the last time I saw you. The last time I’d spend the night in your arms.
And what hurts the most is that I keep writing about you and me like there was an us, but in reality, there never was. There was just a month of me falling for you and you using my body to keep you warm through the night. To keep your mind off of your ex. A month of us staying up until 3 am countless nights with your laughter filling my ears. Taking pictures of the tattoo we both happened to have in the same spot, a tribute to the man whose voice spent every night with us. His albums playing on repeat in the background.
It was only a month, but I could spend the rest of my life reliving that month over and over until I could recount each and every detail down to a T, and need nothing else to be happy.
Because now you’re gone. And now I’m back to smoking cigarettes out my bedroom window alone at 3 am instead of sharing them with you in your car or behind that bar I met you in. I’m back to drowning out my sadness with music and thoughts of you. Eyes blurry with tears, drunk, and in full self-destruct mode. Now Mac is singing me to sleep, playing on shuffle, and I’m alone in my bed. And this time it isn’t background noise. This time it’s just me and him. This time I’m touching myself in the dark instead of fucking you for hours on end.
And even amongst all of the aching, all of the sadness, all of the pain that lies weaved throughout my bones, I still think of you, more than you deserve, more than I should, more than I’ll even admit here.
The truth is, I’m always thinking of you. You haven’t left my mind since the night I met you.
When it’s late and my hand is hanging out my window, cigarette lit, curtains closed around me to stop the smoke from settling into every last corner of my room, I’m thinking of you. When my bottle is empty and I’m too drunk to even remember my own name, I’m thinking of you. When you’re with her, locked in her embrace, lips on her skin, in her bed, I’m thinking of you.
My skin is tinted red and warm to the touch, but it’s not because your fingers were digging into it. It’s not because your body heat is raising my body temperature. It’s not because we’re outside behind that bar and your arms are around me because I’m shivering uncontrollably. It’s because right now I’m pretty sure there’s more alcohol in my veins than blood and I haven’t been able to breathe normally since you told me you were going back to her.
And yeah, I’m well aware that these feelings are most likely one-sided. And yeah, I know I’m probably romanticizing this entire situation more than it deserves. But something about you filled me with colors I never even knew existed. Something about you reminded me of those feelings that I didn’t want to explore again, and once you indulge in something you’ve been starving yourself of for so long you fall right into that marathon of trying to push those feelings out again.
I’m failing miserably.
But, if I’m being honest, the fact that the shirt I kept of yours no longer smells like you isn’t what hurts the most. The fact that I spent my night alone, getting drunk off wine, chain-smoking, and seeing snaps of you with her less than 24 hours after blowing things off with me isn’t what hurts the most. The fact that you walked away faster than I could even catch my breath isn’t what hurts the most.
What hurts the most is that the entire time we were together, she was on your mind. When I was in your bed you were imagining it was her. When your lips were on my skin you were thinking of her. When you were telling me that your mom liked me and wanted you to keep me around, you probably already knew that you’d be going back to her.
What hurts the most is that you didn’t give this a chance. You didn’t give us a chance.
You didn’t give me a chance.
You used me as a way to kill a few hours in the dark and the second you had the opportunity you went running right back to her. You didn’t even wait long enough for my scent to fully leave your skin. I bet you still tasted me in your mouth when you were climbing back into bed with her.
And as much as I don’t want to admit this, all I’ll say is that if you ever decided you wanted to come back into my life I don’t think I’d think twice about letting you back in. Every look in my direction, every touch of your fingertips on my skin, every promise and plan that fell out between your lips made me want to give you my heart. And though I wish this wasn’t the case, last time I checked it looked like some pieces were missing.
Some of them probably got left behind in your bed.
The truth is though, I’d let you fuck me over a thousand more times as long as it meant I’d have you back in my life in some form.
You’re someone I wouldn’t mind writing novels about.
You’re someone I could get lost in for the rest of my life, with no intentions of looking for an exit.
And maybe one day you’ll realize that the stars in the sky haven’t been shining as bright as they did when I was in your life and you’ll come searching for a bit of my moonlight to brighten up your sky. Maybe one day you’ll realize that you no longer remember my smell and the feeling tugs at your heart at least just a little bit. Maybe one day you’ll absentmindedly take two cigarettes out of your pack instead of one, thinking for just a brief second that I’m there to smoke one with you. And when you realize I’m not there, and when you realize you’re the one who pushed me away, maybe you’ll pick up your phone, call me, and tell me you made a mistake.
And, as much as I hate to admit it when that moment does come, I’ll be here.