Oranges were your favorite fruit

I should be fucking guys on weekends

Drinking juices from vaginas

Licking up beer from the bottom of someone’s shoe

Hanging on a makeshift chandelier with one arm

So why am I here

In this mess that’s my life

The pad of my thumb always hovering over your number

Asking myself what would happen if I pressed it

I’ve learned from experience that nothing will

That you won’t pick up and that you’ll leave me hanging

Doing whatever it is you’re doing three hours away

Those three hours seem like three thousand miles to me

You, a speck among eight billion people, and me, never giving up trying to find you

I ask myself what it is I’m doing

And it all comes down to you

Your smile, your jokes, your body pressed against mine on a hot Tuesday afternoon

I keep asking myself if what we had was real

I don’t press call because I know that when you don’t pick up, all I’ll have is the shame bottled up in my stomach begging to boil over