TFLN Poem - Three Doors Down, Texting

Hey.

Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem .

(330):

First off: I'm drunk so fuck you. Second: you weren't a bad girlfriend. Tres: thats 3 in spanish. Number 4: fuck 3 Doors Down

Ok. Being polite, she made an Irish goodbye

Hours ago.  Prolly round the time I polished off the cheap vodka

I found behind the cupboard, in a plastic container.

It’s never good when liquor greets you in lightweight plastic.

And I’m here. I showed up. I showed - I showed up,  didn’t, I? That’s extra credit.

Key still worked.  You’ve still got that goofy ass cow fridge magnet

Your mom gave you. And it’s clutching an old pic of mine, me before

My eyes grew hard and people instinctively started giving me room

On the subway.

Wasn’t always this way.

Wasn’t always so intense.

We would make baby talk and lie under the stars and sip slurpees and if the hammer of sadness pressed upon us we would drink the rivulets of laughter in our eyes

I’m texting you.

You’re not responding.

I know.

I’m still texting.

I have to.

I’m here. I just wanted to see the place.

One last time.

Through a milky layer of dust.

Sifting through your music collection.

And you’ve got “Here Without You” three times on an Ipod.

And just – just fuck that.

Fuck that.

The hardest part of death isn’t just losing you.

The hardest part of death is that I’m still alive.