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.