I remember the taste of every beer,
until maybe number ten.
I remember the sweet, minty taste of your lips,
until you moved across the Atlantic.
I remember the way I shook when I was with you,
but thank God I don't remember the night I said I loved you.

you'd think after two and a half years of
3 am conversations about how we both wanted to **** ourselves and
sweet kisses where my dad said to keep hidden and
random, drunk you mean everything to me's that
your name wouldn't taste so bitter when
my mom asks how you're doing and
I tell her that you're fine and that
I don't miss you but
sometimes I still like to text you when I get high even though
you're always drunk.