About Last Night


I was drunk, like any other, to prove a point,
but, like any drunkard, it didn't work.
And you fell asleep on the couch,
after I stomped around the house
like a stubborn child, stealing supplies
to build a fort: the one I promised
as redress for a day spent angry.

Remorse, in me, had already started since
we first decided to play this game of silence.
But I put back the chairs, cushions, and sheets,
and made our bed, and folded the towels
in the dryer before I shook you half-awake,
and led you to our room for undisturbed rest,
laying out your uniform for work in the morning.

Yet as I wrote these words, with you asleep
beside me--while I battled a pulsing migraine
from dehydration, and a rumbling stomach
from lack of consumption--I couldn't help but feel
a more confounding sense, a more craving
hunger to kiss your lips until you fully woke,
and you could hear me say I love you.

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