Sometime between Tipsy and Lost

Depressed women

meet at the party

through mutual friends

and, barely

not strangers,

stake claim on the

bathroom downstairs,

pee together,

confess

deepest secrets.

“I haven’t even

told my mom this,

but, also, can you pass

the toilet paper?”

As drinks

and hours wane,

we fall helplessly

in love

with each other’s

naked hearts,

our walls obliterated

by heated compliments

feigning innocence

and a concoction

that could erase

your mind

if you let it.

It’s a girl thing.

Dancing

with a boyfriend

or that one fling

who was almost right,

we catch eyes,

and I remember

what you said sometime

between tipsy and lost.

“I don’t live here.”

I knew it was more

than your

bare walls or

unstocked pantry

because you had already

poured me

your everything

through lemon drops.

How long

have we been visitors

in our own bodies?

I sprinkled

salt on your table

and drew circles.

You scolded only playfully,

as if secretly pleased

to meet

another outlandish soul,

wild like yours.

I came in the arms

of a lover,

and you left with

the remnant

of another who used

to make you

happy.

When I cupped

your blushed cheek

in my palm,

begging,

for all the good in us,

to find home

in your empty house

instead of that couch

where you always

sobbed yourself to sleep,

I knew

I would never see

you again.