Help, I'm Alive.

Weekends are for riding in cars with strangers.

They're for celebrations, dancing, mixing drinks,

and I'm sure that for a brief hour, if the world had ended, we would've all died happy.

The night was cold.

Your room was cold, and so were you.

I wish I had taken fewer shots so it wouldn't be so blurred in my memory.

But try as I might, I couldn't make falling asleep on the couch afterwards while you made spaghetti

anything particularly beautiful.

That was all I could think about on the ride back,

trying not to think about trying not to think about you.

What was particularly beautiful, though, was the moon the night I got back, a canary-yellow orb suspended midway between the sky and the ground, cool wind blowing my wet hair and parched skin. It's impossible not to be happy on a night like this.

But I went back to my room and wept like a child who just lost a valuable possession.

After all, I kind of did, in a way.