by Alabama Stone

when I met you

in March, last year, I said,
so what’s drunk-driving like in this town?
your eyes stuck like you didn’t hear me because,
you probably didn’t hear me.

In April and May, and in June,
I didn’t know, or maybe
forgot, that you existed.
In July I packed my shit and moved,
sweated through every dress I owned,
my thighs chapped and I hated this city.
I started back drinking during the day.

In August you would condone my love for late
night waffles and Lorazepam,
my monthly habit of being miserable,
and I knew you were just as crazy as me,
when I had been thinking
I’d be dead by Christmas.
so in September, I think, I said,
I think, so what kind of pills do you take?
you stomped out your cigarette with a scoff;
told me, someone, sometime, somewhere, is going to want you.

and I swear to god I didn’t know
I wanted it to be you.

The only things I knew about her
were the things you knew
I shouldn’t have known;
like in December how you said,
I sleep on the couch when I’m there. Basically, I just feed her.

I believe you and I could write an almanac.
and if I could write an almanac, it would have the truth
about what’s really out west.
I’m not embarrassed
or sunken in with shame;
When in January I said
I could love you like this;
slammed a shot of Old Crow Bourbon,
gripped a Miller Lite,
and you hated that and tried to hate me too,
so then in February, I kept warm by fucking
some people I didn’t know,
and tried to forget that everything
I thought I loved in January,
will be leaving me in May.

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