I will try to shake away this disease.

I am still dreaming of your face, hungry and hollow for all the things you took away
I don't wanna be your good time; I don't wanna be your fall-back crutch anymore.

I think I'm done now. I think I'm good. I think we're friends and I am okay and I will miss talking about life and road trips and the best goalies in the world with you, this summer when we don't see each other, but I will be fine. I think I've made my peace with you; you are absolved.

finals are hard to focus on when you know you have a real-world job starting in 13 days and you're going to Tennessee in a couple months and you might have an awesome camera waiting for you at home, and you're gonna see your family and your best friend soon and you're gonna see Pittsburgh soon. it's really hard to give a fuck about a political science class you never gave a fuck about anyway. at this point there's a good chance I'm going to write Wilco lyrics as the answer to every question and just peace out after half an hour.

You wake up suddenly and look up at me. When you say my name your voice is low and sleep-roughened, uneven. "How are you feeling?" you ask.

I am feeling like you are going to be the end of me. I wish I could get you out of my system the way I got the alcohol out a few hours before, however painfully. I am feeling shaky and small in the clothes you lent me, and I'm feeling both too young and too old to deal with this, sick at my stomach and sick over you.

"I'm feeling better," I say. "Although I've felt better."

What a twist. Since September I've dreamed of leaving your place in the morning, walking home light and high on your kiss and your smile. I did not anticipate that when the sunlight hit my reluctant eyes on Beacon Street, I would be cripplingly hung over, unsteady and leaving you sleeping untouched on the floor.