At two a.m., you are drunk on bourbon.
Celebrating on your balcony,
in the warm air on the last day of February,
with just a protein bar
and some kale chips in your belly.
You write me poems
and send me songs
and apologize apologize apologize
and you text “Call me please”
from three hundred and sixty five miles away,
because you’ve gotten yourself stuck
on the bathroom floor.
It’s the first time I hear your voice
since Birmingham. You are weepy drunk,
and I tell you jokes to turn you giggly drunk,
and you slip into horny drunk and tell me
the things you want to do with your mouth.
You are adorable, and I am a year of miles away,
coaxing you back into bed with just my voice
crackling over radio towers.
Rest, little drunk.
Tomorrow, you have a hangover
and this poem
and my love to look forward to.