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.