drunk

staring at the phone in my hand, i contemplate
about how many words i would have to misspell
in my text to make you believe i was drunk.
i settle on four.

when i try to type in your number i realize
there is still something cold and wet in my hand,
i put it down and it promptly gets knocked over.

to be honest, i feel almost jipped that i have to
pretend to be drunk as opposed to being able
to just let go.

i find another cup to drink again and it's warm
in my throat but there is a sweet aftertaste that
almost completely covers up the bitter undertones
that bite even the morning after.

i think it's fruit punch, or maybe lemonade
i just know that i dont want what i'm doing
to be covered up, because then it almost
makes it seem alright.

i pour it out and open my phone again to tell you something,
anything, even though i havent heard back from you in weeks.
that's the last thing i'll remember.

in the morning, between the tunnel vision and
the room spinning, i'll open my phone and see that
what i thought i was texting, was different
than what i actually sent.

but it doesn't change that fact that you still won't answer.