I stumbled to her doorstep after
one too many shots,
or maybe 3 or 4.
I manage to knock before falling to the ground,
or maybe I just hit my head on the door on the way down.
I closed my eyes and imagined it was the waves that were
rocking me,
the moisture above my lip was from the
splash of the water and not
blood trickling since I banged my face on the
bar just before the bartender asked me to leave.
I imagined we were on that cruise we’d been
planning before she walked in on a girl
between my legs and screamed my name
louder than I could ever get her to
moan when we spent nights with our bodies intertwined.
She opened the door and placed her hand on my chest.
I’m not sure if she were checking for a heartbeat
or if she missed me too.
I opened my eyes to white walls and
IVs and a
note on the table in front of me.

Blood Alcohol Level of .19
Six months later and I’m still cleaning up your mess.

Published by

Nic Rasmussen

A Brooklyn-based poet who has a lot of feelings and writes about them quite often.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s