I thought I could get high off Sunday afternoon and a waterfront view. And if I drank a glass of wine and inhaled enough of my environment, maybe I could fly. But I can't fly and even in my dreams I keep crashing to the ground. And sometimes I scream and sometimes it doesn't even matter, because every single morning I still wake up alone.
I'm in a haze.
I can no longer recall what day of the week it is, or the curve of your palm, or how you used to stain my skin with words that were simple and vibrant.
The only thing I'm certain of is that I hate myself for thinking of you approximately every sixth morning when I wake up. The ocean is blue, but not nearly as much so as when you're swallowing it's salt. And three summers ago, you grabbed my hand and said "they write movies about this shit."