he told me i tasted like 12 o'clock sun on chilly days without names. since he mentioned days without names, they had been my favourite kind of days. in my head, every day had a colour and yesterday was yellow. you pulled over and got out of the car when i asked you why we could not buy another bottle of red wine for the fifth time. i looked down at my veiny hands and fondled the key that he had left behind. it killed me how everything reminded me of him. i thought that liquid self-pity would erase him but it only made him appear even more distinct. i tried to patch up myself when you was asleep; i kissed the freckles on your back and connected them by drawing constellations and celestial bodies with my silky whisper. i wore long sleeves because my heart was stained by his soporific words. he made me feel calm without effort; it made my skin crack. the way he held me tight made me want to throw up butterflies. you never made me want to throw up butterflies; you only drugged my body with sweet drops of poison. i am fond of you, you would always say and i would always force a smile and take another sip. he adored my blue lips. the more you loved me, the more i adored being intoxicated. after half a year, a few bottles a day made me love you back. i could name every débit de boissons in bordeaux.
hey kiddo, i have brought you a glass of my favourite wine.
he visited me on a chilly day without name. i was already dead when he found me.
*(k.w)