morning thought by Rob Hicks

There’s not much you can do when it’s over. Pack your things, light a cigarette, try not to think about it.

And then you’re free. What can you do? Find someone to fuck, try to squeeze the last of your love out through your scrotum. Eyes closed you can pretend, and it does, it does feel almost right. But you wake up. You always wake up. You wake up and there’s this person, this stranger in your bed. At first you laugh; you think of your night. You try to think of a name and can’t. What matter? It’s not what you want anyway. 

Then there’s the blur, a name, another, the only thing you can remember is why and where it started. A carousel of leering faces, drinks, sticky floors, bathroom tears, a finger down the throat, stars above the streetlamps, who’s thinking of you tonight?, dive back in, shot of whiskey, a name, another, a drink, two, three, those eyes, that hair, what’s your name?, can I buy you a drink?, waving down the barkeep, forced laugh, what’s that? I can’t hear in here, a name, hi I’m..., my name is..., and what do you do?, dark street, walk to the next one, wave down the bartender, whiskey, a name, another, dark shoes,wet floor, music too loud, clench down the teeth, lights on the bottles, crooked broken smiles, funhouse flashes, what’s your name?, a drink, two, credit card, crisp five on the counter, is that right?, you don’t say?, that’s so interesting...wanna get out of here?, outside, stumbling against you, a cab, take us to 52nd, clutched hands, fingers in the fly, giggle, whisper, here’ll do, sidewalk, stars, where are you tonight?, just close your eyes, there like that, almost but not quite, not quite right, not right, just not right... 

​Someone said, or I read somewhere, it’s like that, the first morning after. You wake up with your gut hard, hands wrapped around your stomach holding it in, oh god oh god not again please not again, scared of the kitchen, the bathroom, the dark spaces, looking anyway, is she in there?, are you in there?, no, nothing, nothing anywhere, nothing everywhere, no tears, the bed’s all you’ve got.

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Rob Hicks is from Texas. He travels, and writes, and works, and aches, and is confused, and strives like anyone else. His first book, Cornelia Avila, is available through Belle Tier Press.