a sip of seventeen

i think i’m drunk on seventeen.

the way we play beer pong

the way your hands grip my shoulders and

shake

when i can’t hit a solo cup.

you wanted me to come and

you wanted me to stay

and i try not to read too deeply into any of it.

i always treat people like metaphors

but we’re all so

literal.

we mean the things we say

even if we say them

softly.

subliminal gestures might as well be

subatomic,

so far beneath the surface that they don’t exist.

small things have small meanings.

so why

can’t i stop thinking

of us,

drunk in your bed,

your hands smoothening the bones of my shoulders

while i pretended to sleep.

i love that.

the seventeen.

the choices that don’t make any sense.

the signals that you never meant to send.

it still tastes

like the last time

and i guess i never drink enough

to make myself sick.