This queen size comforter isn’t providing me any comfort in the least. I’ve fixed myself some hot chocolate with a quarter teaspoon of nutmeg but I left it on the nightstand just to watch the steam rise and fall. I’m coiled up on a bed that once imbibed you and I through the night, focused on that picture from last May. You know, the one with your hand placed strategically around my waist; lightly pinching the spot that sent vibrations and made me squirm between the thighs. God, I tried so hard not to release the giggles that wanted out. I tried to get through those seconds of a forced smile because I wanted nothing more than to give you what you wanted, right then and there. Under those city lights that swallowed the camera flash, that brightened your face without an Instagram filter, that placed the glisten in my eyes when we stared at one another. I love that photo. We were in this indescribable state of euphoria.
You can’t stay in bed and mope all day.
So I drowned myself in the music. Two stepped and twirled to whatever the DJ played, even if it was to a song I normally wouldn’t listen to and loathed. The bass from the speakers and the overbearing volume reminded me of those drunken nights we couldn’t keep our hands off each other around friends, resulting in us sneaking into bathrooms to tell stories out loud with our bodies. No one heard us. And no one understood us. But you got me and I had you.
I moved my hips as if you were there and I needed to lure you back into my direction.AnAmerican girl with a West Indian whine, you used to say. If you saw how I tossed my hands up and threw my head back to our jams, you’d smile and your wink would make me weak. I needed to get lost in this moment now that I was here. My girlfriends talked me out of bed, the drinks talked me into staying, and fading and dozing off into a trance under the dark in a New York City lounge. Thank you clear juice for your healing power. In between songs, my best friend would take note of my facial expression and hit me with,
That dude ain’t thinking about you so why’re you stressing over him, girl?
But I’m still thinking about you because of those early morning breezes that push its way past the curtains and brushes my hair back behind my ear, they way you used to. The sun hits my face and at second glance, I can see your silhouette in the glare of the light. Those annoying little sun spots aren’t so aggravating anymore ever since I’ve learned to invite them in because they formed your face like a pixelated drawing.
Good morning, with no response. Ellipsis still sitting in an iMessage filling me with anticipation and anxiety. You always said I talked too much and I’d fire back and tell you you’d never say enough, but now I wish that you’d just saysomething ‘cause even aheywould be okay. I’d take a damn dot and run with it just because I know you’re still alive and you care enough to send me a reply and leave the interpretation up to me. But that automated ‘….’ iOS left me with is fucking me up.
I throw back a shot. I throw your framed picture. They both do the trick. I rock to the break up songs the DJ plays for me that my girls’ request. I rock myself to sleep. Repeat everyFriday night. I sing out loud until I lose my voice, to only go home and face you sitting on my steps in silence.
So, yo. What now?
I couldn’t retreat to the conversations I’ve been having about what I would say should this day arrive. I couldn’t do shit but stand there and ask myself the same thing – now what?