Sun broke through my tiny room
filled it with the promise of an early morning
Saturday. Christina wanted to know
what happened last night. She’d called
twice already, apparently I talked to her
but what I said made no sense. I didn’t think
reality would be much clearer. Had I really
broke things off with you? Was I now a couple
with him? What had I done under the poisonous
influence last night? At some point
had you really told me, you hoped
I’d be your wife some day? And was it after
I’d already ruined things? And I remember the scene
in Animal House (which my father took me to
at nine, which, really, might explain some things)
but I distinctly recall being in a grocery cart
at some point last night. That I’d fucked things up
so royally in so few hours made me ache.
Guilt over what I’d done clenched at every organ
Yet youth left me hangover free.
I had to try and stand behind
my decision however drunk I was
when I made it. I had to try because I hadn’t
when I left him the last time.
When he lost his friend at fifteen.
I was at a loss for how to comfort him then.
At best it was an irrational, adolescent
agnostic’s attempt to help an underdog,
because you, you would be fine without me.
At worst it was a compulsion
to erase a badness I’d done to him
months before I came upon your lightness.

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