His going away party
and we were focused on our words.
I kept mine between my teeth before he poured my drink
but then I couldn’t find them two rounds into King’s Cup.
I slept in his bed once the wine was gone.
His scent was stitched into the sheets but
I don’t remember how we got there.
I only remember how he wanted to teach me
how to say “hello” and “goodbye” in his language,
but I wanted to sleep
so I spoke into the pillow and kept my eyes shut
until his lessons dissolved into the next morning.
We met twice after that
but if you were to ask me, I would call that night,
with the both of us more than tipsy
and his hand on my back,
with his language slipping past my tongue,
our last look.
There was no deep glance into his eyes
that might have seemed like an ocean if I was lonelier,
just the both of us easing into a simple understanding
that his bed would be the only thing shared between us.
