Seventy-five past Midnight

Fifty-seven minutes after midnight. I open the bottle of whiskey. I pour myself a glass and I sit, looking at it, as if by some miracle it would give me the answers I seek. 

My mind wanders off to far-away, long-ago places; to where I tasted you, whiskey on your lips. 

I hate whiskey. 

Yet, I'm drinking just that, at fifty-nine minutes after midnight. Whiskey, mixed with lime and ice, just how you like it. I wonder, is this a curse, sitting here thinking about you, or is it a blessing that no one will ever understand, but you and me.

Sixty-one minutes past midnight, I pour myself another glass. Lime and ice, and I can taste your lips in the glass. Is this bliss, or am I insane?

I think of songs. Sixty-two minutes after midnight I'm stuck thinking about songs over whiskey. Isn't it pathetic? Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's something people do, but don't admit. To themselves, to friends, to anyone. I wonder if I can make it to seventy-five minutes past midnight.

My mind is clouded by whiskey, yet clearer than even before. I know who I am and who I want you to be. I I remember that house we looked at and how much we want(ed) to have it. Just for us. Ours. Sixty-four minutes past midnight. 

Sometimes I wonder what you like so much about whiskey, but then I remember. It tastes of me to you. 
Sometimes I wonder what I like so much about whiskey, but then I remember. It tastes of you to me. 

So, is this a blessing, or a curse? Should we laugh it off, or worry? What if...?

No, no, I don't want the what-ifs. I want to live it all, right here, right now. I want to have it all, even if I lose it all. I'm not afraid. I won't hide behind excuses and song lyrics. I don't want you to hide either.

Sixty-seven minutes after midnight. Hold on. 

Seventy-one minutes after midnight. I start to hesitate. Part of me wonders if you'd see it. Part of me knows you will. Another part of me wonders if you'd understand and another part knows you will. Seventy-two minutes after midnight. I know you will, because this is how we work; we understand each other. We understand each other to the painful point of knowing what the other one would do and accepting it. To the point where we sip whiskey alone, yet together. Seventy-three minutes. Make it another two. Then you can allow yourself to. Two more minutes...

Another shot of whiskey, can't stop looking at the door, wishing you'd come sweeping in the way you did before. And I wonder if I ever cross your mind? For me it happens all the time.
It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now. I said I wouldn't call, but I've lost all control and I need you now. And I don't know how I can do without.
 
I just need you now.

03.02.2013
Replica