i tap my fingertips against the wall which shelters my little world inside my apartment and think of things to write about. what the fuck do i know, what the fuck do you want to hear from me? do you want me to tell you that i'd go sober for you, because i swear i would. i wouldn't touch a drop (nor would i want to) and we could work on the nicotine addiction. but maybe i just miss when we were kids and kisses on the cheeks was all we needed to show each other our i love you's, when we dreamed up stories in our heads and bought cheap candy and pop, lost in those late weekday nights in the summertime. before these clothes became our caskets and all the kids switched to cocaine, because whiskey never mended our minds. i remember when your lips tasted like cherry chapstick and vanilla ice cream, before we melted them into cheap wine and wrapped them around even cheaper cigarettes. i have this small intangible memory of the night when we knew things had changed forever. when we huddled our little frames together in the parking garage across from the royal albert arms, smoking john players between bands feeling oh so punk. we kissed and smiled and laughed but i knew that you would never taste like that cherry chapstick again.
