I can feel the grating dry taste of liquor coating my tongue. It runs down my throat in a similar manner to a cold, hugging the red channel every time I swallow. I can feel the lethargy in my viens, tiny molecules of worn out alcohol swimming next to my blood cells. My mind over active in imagination.
It’s the time before I wake up. The first time I rise the morning after. Early sun leaks in through my subpar blinds filling my room with an eerie blue light only rivalled by my phone screen as I type these fancies. My body is working through the last legs of the night. Drunkeness hasn’t yet slipped from me and the hangover hasn’t fully begun. I’m bound to fall back asleep and reawaken as a grumpy moth.
Yet in these moments, as I hear my stomach churn, I crave a body close to me. An arm to wrap around my torso and hold my unburdened breasts or legs to rub up and down mine and hook around my feet. I want to be wanted. I want to feel held and secure. I’m aware of how selfish these thoughts at dawn are but fail to care.