This isn't where I was last night,
but it's better than
the night before;
drunken fingers trembling
up my thighs would always
make me think of you,
and your ambitions
on cold winter mornings.
Our bare feet shivered
beneath linoleum,
and that out of the shower air
we've dreaded since childhood.
In your bedroom,
we would suffocate
beneath towels and blankets,
trying to trap the heat
as strands of wet hair
pierced my back,
and rested against your chest.
I would dream of beautiful women,
and wonder if ten years from now
"I told you so" would really mean
something more than
you were jealous
of my female friends;
I hoped that until then
would could sink into the sunrise,
and reminisce on the
half-eaten sandwiches
and baked nights
of our youth.
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