his smooth lips bring slack a taut jaw, catching on stubble and whiskey stench; he rumbles low in his throat, places a hand on hiswaist, and who knows what he means when he can't speak.


drunk like this, i don't mean anything to him; drunk like this, he doesn't mean anything to me.


in the obscure hours of morning, he twists himself in bedsheets and lingers in the warmth left in his spot; when he wakes, there is nothing.