You answer on the second ring. "You're drunk."
Which, i am. Thats what always sparked these two a.m. calls. But you always answer.
"Come over," i beg. I know you will say yes, you always do. And we would give up the rest of the morning to awake mid-afternoon. Too young to buy alcohol, too young to spend the hours burning up the sheets in bouts of fiery passion. Yet we always did.
"I cant."
"Cmon babe, dont be like that," i say, deciding to play along with your little game. Only it isnt a game.
"You can't keep running to me when your boyfriend doesnt want you. I'm not your one night stand, your pick me up. I cant keep doing this." Your voice breaks but you continue. "You dont love me. Ive been waiting for you to see those men cant give you what i can. Their calloused hands arent my smooth ones. Their deep voices aren't the gentle one you long for."
She pauses for a moment. "I loved you damnit. I loved you. Wasnt that enough?!"
I knew you hung up before the call disconnected. Knew you were crying over the man you could never hold, the msn who loved men more than you, the sweet woman with a broken heart, a heart i broke.
I pick up the bottle, it wasnt like my old man would notice. I take a sip letting the Crown Royal burn on its way down, burn like the bitter tears stinging your eyes.
Me in my father's house, you in your Mother's. Three blocks and two houses apart. Stupid teens lost in the world we created.
The phone rings. I answer. "I hate you....I'm on my way."
You crawl in through the window and grab the bottle of whiskey wincing as it burns your throat. I take your hand in mine, bringing it to my lips and kissing the fresh wounds-the skinned knuckles, the cut wrist. I guide you to the bed, as we give into lust, and provide the only source of love the other will know, even if it drove us straight to hell.
ns 15.158.61.54da2
