On Friday night we built a blanket fort for ventilation purposes. We tore apart two fitted sheets to make it. It was propped up by half a christmas tree. My housemate reminded us that he was an engineer as we pegged it to the couches. It hurt my neck to sit in but it had the air of magic inside it.
I spent all of Saturday lying in it. In it I couldn’t hear the dog barking or the lady that always screams fuck you when the dog barks at her. I couldn’t hear the cars turning on the corner, every time sounding like they are pulling up in front of our house. I couldn’t see if the sun was up or if another day had slipped passed me.
It had been nearly two weeks since I had written something. I had creative blue balls. I had other blue balls. I bought a bottle of expensive vodka and a bottle of cheap orange juice. I told the internet I would write it a poem.
I woke at 5am on Sunday. I was face down on the floor. I stunk of chocolate and my clothes were sticky. I had a hangover like a nerve agent. Next to me, in an open skyrim notebook, was this poem; born of a night of honest sadness that only vodka can produce. The night escapes me, leaving only the smell of ethanol, the taste of acid and a life lesson. I slept from before sunset yesterday to sunrise today. I got some writing done but.
I would tell you the story of when we first met
I should have maybe told more stories
I had plenty of other ones
But that one was my favourite
We smoked a lot of cigarettes that night
I feel bad because that was not good for you
We were the last two standing at a party
We drank other people’s booze till early in the morning
It was the perfect way to meet you
We played each other music
You played me some of my favourite songs
I made some bad choices
But I was being honest
I guess that was what was special about that night
I said all the things that I thought would drive you away
I wore my favourite and worst looking clothes
I smoked and I drank and I swore and I laughed
I should have stretched that night on forever
Lived on laughing and saying stupid things
Now the stupid things I have said claw at me
Make me swear and swing at empty space
And the night is just a story
That I am too scared to tell