Monsoon Season

This is how it happens:
It is two AM,
and we are texting,
and you are begging,
letting me fall asleep with the word
“Please” tattooed against the inside
of my eyelids until my breathing is in sync with
pleading
and Justin Timberlake’s voice slices through the dark
and I bolt up, hearing you saying “Hello?”

Tonight,
you will find yourself in a mass of bodies,
sharing sweat and skin and lips
with girls who don’t even know your last name.
With girls who don’t know the same way
your mouth wraps around a bottle,
or how it twisted with grief in the early fall;
when the outward wailing
failed to match the hurricane in your lungs
as the tornado ripped your spine
to shreds,
only to have the blood
flash flood through your body
all practically in silence,
all not drowning out the sound of your misery.

This is how it happens:
“First rule of Fight Club:
don’t talk about Fight Club.”
I have never laughed so much at three AM
on the phone with some boy
who is begging me to be a warm body in his bed.
And I am whining and you are sighing,
because there is no
“logical reason”
I am not in my car, driving to you,
as the minutes roll toward four,
instead of my body rolling toward you,
because I am only beautiful as ball of
sweat and skin and lips.

Tonight,
don’t drive unless you’re sober.
Tonight let your eyes reflect the lights
of a dying shore side,
grasping whoever’s hand is naive
and whose palm is not sweaty.
Do not lose yourself to the bankruptcy,
but rather to each delectable instance.
Do not lose yourself to the sound of the sea
because it echoes those nights
where you were six bottles in,
fifty sobs out,
spine broken,
lungs soaked,
and soul drowning.

And I won’t lose myself when you don’t respond
and it’s once again two AM,
but my phone’s not ringing.

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