Have you ever thought of calling me after you’ve had a few? Because I have.
Nights when whiskey, or gin, or wine have poisoned my bloodstream, the familiarity of your laugh creeps out of my walls. The best kept secret.

I don’t have space to let anyone else in because you built your house in this body, only you forgot to tear it down when you decided it wasn’t fitting anymore.
I’ve often questioned if I was ever enough, if I’ll ever be what you seek and want to find refuge within.

I’m scared I’m far too occupied being yours to attend to anyone else who might fancy me.
The disintegration of this mind can be attributed to all the nights I crawled back into my apartment hoping I’d find your arms waiting to welcome me back.

Imaging I’d cuddle myself into your arms and no longer hear the bangs and smells of my mistakes that lay wake in all the destruction which keep me from sleeping.
I had a devilment you calmed so gently, so purely and now all it does is overcome me.

Have you ever thought of calling me after you’ve had a few? Because darling, I surely have.
Since you aren’t here, I waste away and draw pictures of how the setting might be laid out:
You sit across me at the dinner table, your glass of wine filled to the brim. You never did deprived yourself.

I sit, marveling at how you make eating look like poetry; there’s a beauty in the attention you take, the time you give yourself.
I remember the first night we spent together; you were theatrical in your demands of wanting the left side of the bed. Your hand didn’t stop clutching mine and I found it difficult as knowing no dream spent with my eye shut would be any better or fulfilling than the one in front me.
And now, all that has passed.