I stumbled to her doorstep after
one too many shots,
or maybe 3 or 4.
I manage to knock before falling to the ground,
or maybe I just hit my head on the door on the way down.
I closed my eyes and imagined it was the waves that were
rocking me,
the moisture above my lip was from the
splash of the water and not
blood trickling since I banged my face on the
bar just before the bartender asked me to leave.
I imagined we were on that cruise we'd been
planning before she walked in on a girl
between my legs and screamed my name
louder than I could ever get her to
moan when we spent nights with our bodies intertwined.
She opened the door and placed her hand on my chest.
I'm not sure if she was checking for a heartbeat
or if she missed me, too.
I opened my eyes to white walls
and IVs
and a note on the table in front of me.

"Blood alcohol level of .19.
Six months later and I'm still cleaning up your mess."

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