I must've held you too close, the way the fabric of your dress built up creases from where my fingers grasped onto; the indents where my fingertips once held left a fine indentation of my hand. You'd always say you were never too far away, and with the way you lived in my dreams I almost believed you, but why is it that I'm too afraid to open my eyes in instilled fear that the spot next to me on the bed will be vacant when I wake?
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It wasn't enough for you to kiss me until my lips turned raw and my teeth clashed against yours over and over again while muttering something about how you loved the way my hair smelled when dampened from the rain— you got drunk off of me again and again until your eyes glazed over and my tongue felt numb; running me dry like your favorite poison before staring at the bottom of the bottle and wondering why I was always so empty after.
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"You're my favorite concoction." Your fingers were tangled in my hair as we were squeezed into the booth of some overcrowded bar between two people who smelled like sweat mixed with liquor. I swear my heart thumped so fast I was afraid you'd feel it right through my chest as you held me closer by my collar as my lips pressed against yours. I wanted to be more than just your poison, but as you stood there before me all doe-eyed and your lips swollen, I couldn't resist— how could I pull myself away from you exactly?
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I know that when you're sober you won't look at me the same way and your hands won't be so eager, but I'll steadily let you get drunk and drunk and drunk and I'll let you use me until i'm just another empty bottle. I wish you'd touch me when you're sober.
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If you missed me, you'd call. you know I wait right by the phone.
