you wrote it down,
what he looked like in the
moonlight
on summer nights miles from home
you get inside
staggering,
foot slipping on wood floors
then bathroom linoleum
the porcelain tub is unrelenting
but you fall asleep there anyway.
droplets clinging to your jeans.
can you even feel it anymore?
you wake up in the morning
neck ache to match your headache
sunlight burns your eyes
and you can’t remember
if you wanted to take a bath
or if you couldn’t make it to bed.
minutes later,
you’ve filled the toilet with remnants
of last night’s party
and you’ve downed two aspirin
washing it down with water from a cup
that you saw as half empty.
you find the napkin from the bar,
absent pen marks turn to words.
you wanted to remember
what he looked like in the moonlight
silhouetted in the pale glow.
you were both sticky with humidity.
there was a lack of breeze
in the middle of all of those trees
as he walked you from the party to the bar.
tiny clouds were scattered across the sky
but not once
did they fall across the moon.
and between his words,
the crickets and the katydids,
there was never a moment of silence.
however,
like dreams,
just because you wrote it down
doesn’t mean that you remember.
so you clench your fist,
napkin crumpled
words wrinkled,
hidden.
phrases incomplete.
you still remember what color his eyes are
but you can’t seem to picture
how they shown under celestial lights
and you can hear his voice in your head
but you can’t recall
what he said to you,
or what you said to him.
or if he held your hand
or if he kissed your lips...
you lie in bed
like laying in graves
at the end of each day.
head sick from the gin
or maybe from him
because lately, it’s become harder to tell.
last night’s clothes lay on the floor
like a body.
you’ve turned all the lights off
pulled the curtains closed,
but even in the dark,
your sobering mind can’t remember
what happened last night.