still a little outofmymind.

I hate that these things remind me of him.
It took me a week to finally get rid of the jack in the box cup,
full of malt liqure he left in my room. the fuzzy burning in my gut stung.
He said I could finish it, but I only drank half before my thoughts got goofy.
in the black of my room, with nothing but a long tee shirt. the window open.
no screen. we heard small squeeling things. squirells I said.
some fuckn crazy squirells. we laughed. their my family, you said.
amused. we bantered on. your a squirell hu? we smiled.
In the crook of your arm I inhaled. "even your armpit smells good."
it smelled like dirty gold. like cinimon. some exotic leaf. collone.
golden. everything about you was golden. a lion. yellow dust.
i loved it. it warmed my blues. my sheet rock of oceans.
my waves were rolling onto your sandy skin.
emotionally. I couldnt stop. I didnt realize how cold I was before you.
i should have noticed when you scoffed at my remark.
as if liking the smell of someones armpit was simply repulsive.
and it is, kind of. i agree. but I didnt care. i liked it.
our bodies seporated as I looked for my pack.
"dude I still had a cigg left, where did i put my pack"
he rolled off the edge of the bed. hanging your arms over the side,
helping me look by the bed. gone. we started laughing.
where did they go. our missing ciggarete was brought up many times.
haha, whatch its gunna show up in the fucking fish tank or something.
Ill call you in twenty years when it shows up, "hey! i found it"
and we'll smoke it.

well i found the ciggarete today.
its in my pocket. Im afraid to smoke it.
but I need to. it symbolizes something.
me, smoking alone. the cigarette I promised to share with you.
fuckkker. this ones mine.