Saturday Night

I hold on tight to the only thing I’ve got:
just that memory in my head.
A tipsy and foggy memory, sure,
but one that transpired nonetheless.

I scratch and pull at the details of it,
disorienting things with my haste.
I’m forgetting things that were there
and including things that were not.

Whatever my brain chooses to fabricate or omit,
and however vigorously it bounces about in my head,
I can never forget how contented I felt next to you
while drifting amongst a sea of unknown faces.

I will continue to wring this memory dry,
and dissect all I possibly can.
All the while hoping our nights collide
so we can do it all over again.


Cleveland Circle

I look out the window and see the older people, outside of the fancy new restaurants with their cigarettes, and remember how I once really believed that could be us; me and him. I wished I was older, wiser, and disliked going out like he did. Yet I was 19 at the time, possessed slim to none adult capabilities, and loved to go out and have fun. I was, at best, a distraction. He just wanted someone who was willing to completely alter themselves for him, and he didn’t care who it was. Or perhaps I was a phase. Something to make him feel a little less lonely after his breakup. Regardless of what I was – whatever my title to him happened to be during this time – it was clear that whatever I was, it contained in its definition the word “temporary”.

My Uber driver and I pass it all. I pass the Star Market on my right, only a few blocks from his apartment, where I helped him with groceries a few times. I loved that he brought me here. It showed little sparks of commitment- just a taste.We always disagreed on what groceries to buy. He always found fault with what I wanted to buy, and I usually found fault with what he wanted, too. In the end, whatever he wanted for dinner- that’s what we ate.

As we pass CVS I know I’m getting closer to his apartment, where practically the entirety of our relationship took place. The CVS is where I bought a toothbrush for his place. He hated when I forgot mine: “it’s childish and gross”, he would say. He joked that a “forever toothbrush” was a huge step in commitment, it was even “bigger than moving in”, yet he never let me keep it in the bathroom.

Finally, we reach the street on which his apartment is on. I’m able to glimpse a view of it for just a few seconds before my Uber speeds of to try and make the light ahead of us. It’s on the right, the alley is dark but I can see. I see two figures walking down the street, towards his place. A man and a woman, they’re hand in hand. My gaze lingers, and in a moment it’s already gone. I turn my head straight, and look forward.