merry times

shots of tequila and a lime that got me drunker than the alcohol,
and still i can only manage to reach that silly state of partial drunkenness,
and only halfway right,
if not completely left.

and in a room that reeks of vomit that looked suspiciously (predictably) like rice,
where i remained so i could monitor someone else's breathing, for once
i find myself alone.

i find myself alone.

and i'm sorry,
to the clone of the guy i already dated,
but you're too comfortable for me to really care about you.
(besides, i've only known you for a week,
and if i really managed to break your heart in that amount of time,
like you said i did,
you have a weak heart to begin with,
and it likely has a dilapidated beat.)

love can't be comfortable.
when it is, it's not exciting.

and when i say love, i mean exhilaration.

because when you walk into the room, i don't want to think
"i'm comfortable now"
i want to think
"..."
because when you're excited you don't really think about shit.

like being on a rollercoaster,
you don't think
"ahhhh"
you just say it
you just do it
you just are

sometimes you have to grab discomfort and kick it in the ass
(or kiss it on the lips)

and if you're lucky,
you'll forget how to breathe.