Meridion - 2. Basualdo

Four a.m.
Two lone figures, hopelessly trying to hide behind a skinny, leafless tree,
in a quiet, suburban street,
painted like a bland stroke in the middle of the urban sea I call home.

It was near his place (too near),
the cozy two-story house where he lived with his parents.
I'd been hoping that's where we went,
but I suppose the cold, hard pavement of the sidewalk
was a more appropriate place
for what went down.

Is it too much to say there's a war being waged inside me?

A small part of me wishes I could say I remember every little detail,
but in the back of my head nothing but flashes remain
(Everyone insists on cherishing the first times,
no matter how awful they are.)

Another, bigger, part wants for me to just leave it alone;
what you know is enough, it says, and most of the time that's the voice I listen to,
because the loose pieces of this puzzle feel like they could only belong to a picture I don't want to see.

Every decision I'd made up until that point had been conscious,
from the moment I asked him out over the pretense of catching up
(he'd been so busy after we finished school, had so much to talk about),
to the fifty-peso bottle of vodka we bought in that Open 24-H kiosk.

He didn't drink any of it.
I know, because the bottle didn't leave my hand until it was half-empty,
and he decided to throw it away.
I guess I can't hold my liquor.

I should've known.
(But I did, I knew what I was getting into, I knew.)

Am I even allowed to believe the one at fault was anyone but me?
(If it's my fault I can't complain.)

Did I want it?
Out of all the questions I pose myself when I'm weak, when I listen to the small part, that's the loudest one.

I saw him the other day.
It's almost funny, how in a city of three million souls you bump into people you know so often.
We talked a bit, and it was fine.
He went his way, and I went mine.
I guess I'm over it now, I guess it doesn't matter.

I guess the bigger part already won.