Mornings After

I wake up around dawn, and I have the same feeling I had the other night: that I've got no ballast, nothing to weigh me down, and if I don't hang on I'll just float away. I like Marie a lot, she's funny and smart and pretty and talented, but who the hell is she? I don't mean that philosophically. I just mean I don't know her from Eve, so what am I doing in her bed? Surely there's a better, safer, more friendly place for me than this? But I know there isn't, not at the moment, and that scares me rigid.




You said to me that night: "No, don't change. Don't change anything about yourself."

But you know nothing about me: You don't know that I suffer from vertigo and shouldn't have too much chocolate, cheese, strawberries, and beer. You don't know that I smoke roughly a pack a day and perhaps need to quit. You don't know that I'm thinking of growing my hair long, so I can have cornrows or dreadlocks, or both. You don't know that I'm thinking of getting another tattoo, this time at the small of my back.

You don't know--as I know nothing about you.

You, who took my hand and lead me into a slow dance. You, who drank orange juice with me from one bottle. You, who fed me honey off the blunt edge of a knife. You: who smoked your last cigarette with me, shared your towel, your soap, your toothbrush. You, who ran your hands up and down my back as I lay on my stomach, my head against your shoulder. You, who pulled me into a spoon while you slept, and I couldn't for trying to match my breathing with yours.

We know nothing about each other. Nothing to warrant your odd request. Not our last names, birthdays, the kind of peope we don't like. We don't know how the other feels about pop music, wasabi, baseball, or karaoke. Or how we feel about being away from our homes, our families. About how the other can be lonely, and what we do to cope.

All we know is that when morning came, I had to leave, dressed in yesterday's clothes--with no regrests, but perhaps a bit of sadness. And shame.