You’re bleeding on the hotel bed but that’s okay; they don’t wash the sheets anyways. There’s a boy, and you’re you, and he might love you enough to hold your hand some day. He smiles at you in the bath that night and he really does look like a woman in certain light, but that’s what makes him ethereal, and what makes that green bloom swell inside you when everyone else sees you together. You can’t really say he’s mine, but if you did it might be true one day. You’re on your knees in the middle of the street, drunk and screaming: at him, at everyone else. He has you by the shoulders and his hands nearly cover them all. You were never that big to begin with. He smiles like he did in the bath and he’s yours no matter who either of you go home with. He smiles like he did in the bath.
He’s the new light of the morning, the sodium streetlights after you’ve been drinking, he’s always there except when he isn’t, and times like that make you wonder if he was ever really around, if he really cared about who he saw you with. The night you met you did blow in the bathroom. It was a winter party, or maybe he was just wearing white. He could be yours he could be yours. But you both drink too much and you love too much and he was never good at telling just one story. He’s fun and fun is what you need because the sun doesn’t set on fun and leave you in the dark. Fun is 24/7, the open bar, the blow in the bathroom, the lights that never go out because nothing ever closes; you always leave until you’re home. Fun is other people. Fun is the smile in the bath, while you wash his hair and he touches your knee. Incoherence and bliss. That’s all you ever really wanted: the light that never goes out.