Dry Drunk Lover

A prose poem about a someone missing her lover after a long time of being "sober" or "clean" from his presence

Dry Drunk Lover

Fransivan MacKenzie

What had gotten to me yesterday that made me long for you again after months of being sober? The days were long but I got through them one hour at a time. Last night, though, a thought of you caught me off-guard. I had to mutter a votive prayer to St. Jude with clasped hands.

Was it me lying down in the yawn of winter, remembering the mornings I woke up with your note on your side of the bed? The icy words if not the radio silence, the blue eyes that lost the art of melting me, the glacier of your touch that crept into my skin. I still reckon all the signs that I missed.

Was it the sleep depravation that reminded me how I used to stay up late with you, our laughter filling the night until the sun rose, our hearts in shock when the alarms went off? We were so drunk with red wine, romance, and remnants of our old lives to think about work and food and everything we've got to lose. Was it the empty of the candle-lit evenings that made me wish to see you on my front door - a devilish grin on your face and a bottle of Australian Shiraz on hand?

Was it how December was so loud then January was a haze then February arrived on my porch with crushed velvets to wrap me in an embrace? Was it the cancelled plans and my room's library beckoning me to pick up the book I last read before you told me you loved me no longer? Was it time ticking you away only to bring you closer in silence?

Last night, I opened the fridge and found nothing but frozen fries, packets of McDonald's ketchup, yogurts, and pitchers of water. The temperature didn't knock me off, but for a while, I left the refrigerator door ajar to remind me of the midnights we snuck into the kitchen like teenagers with no concept of time, chewing on snacks until morning arrived.

Is there a Blue Book or a meeting for the brokenhearted ones? Does anyone know the steps to take on forgetting the man you thought you couldn't live without?

I'm not sure of anything except this: I can't pick up. The bottle. The phone. The me that remained frozen in bed the morning you left me for another girl.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

This is very good, and besides touching my heart, it touched on thoughts and experiences I once had. (Long ago) Somehow, a song played as I read.

Oh no, I never got over those blues eyes
I see them every where
I miss those arms that held me
When all the love was there