photography by Amadeus Long | Website | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter
I Think the Answer to the Question may be Zero
The gun in Travis’s hand pushed
against Matt’s face and wants him gone,
so go Matt does, faster than New Year’s
booze and resolutions. In the bathroom
a counter groaned with the weight of bodies
thrust together. This is not romantic,
whispered one reflection to the other.
Curled in the crook of Adam’s arm
after one too many keg stands, he told me “I love you,”
I smiled and said “I don’t want to be alone.”
Dead-drunk in the backseat, Matt shot up
and sang boys, boys, all types of boys, then crumpled
back to sleep. Justin let me in whenever I showed up
drunk at 3 a.m. We’d crawl into bed, sprawl out,
each with a foot rooted to the floor to stop the spins.
The picnic table didn’t mean to break the bottle of Jäger,
but Adam and his brother set it on fire anyways
and the cops came to Long Street, but arrested no one.
Travis was evicted but came back for furniture that wasn’t his.
I sat on the couch, the morning after a party gone wrong
and Justin wore
a light blue button down shirt,
messy with blood, as we chain-smoked into morning.
Matt leaned into me once and asked his beer
how many ways are there to forget a person?