“boris…boris”
you called out on the
verge of throwing up,
glasses smudged and
a nasty headache, you
wondered about what had
happened last night.

your lips tasted of rust
and copper, worthless
pennies without a cause.
your shirt tucked inside out,
you stumbled as you tried to stand up.

he puts a finger to your lips reassuring
you that everything was fine, as
he slipped out the back door, leaving
you alone in an air conditioned hum.

he was the only person you
entrusted, yet you didn’t have a clue.
your golden friend was long gone
from your mind, but there were still
faint glimpses of that old, familiar
world of saturday outings and vinyl
records scattered across the room.