He’s never been in love.

Not in third grade when he asked the girl whose hair he thought was pretty to hold his hand.

Not in high school when a girl in his math class dropped a Valentine’s card in his locker.

Certainly not when his first college girlfriend professed her love for him while drunk at a party

Her words coming out in sobs before he had one of her friends take her home.

Nope

He’s never been in love.

It stays a constant,

Like his name or the haircut he’s had since first grade.

He even wears it proudly,

Like someone who’s never seen Titanic or ever heard a Nirvana song.

It’s a personality quirk at this point,

Just another thing that makes him who he is.

Then he met her,

And a year later his best friend turned to him to say,

“Man, she’s not coming back.”

Once he finally believed it,

He shook his head and reminded everyone

He’s never been in love.

I like to think we haven’t run out of things to talk about yet.

I like to think we never will.

We can sit around the table, chatting about the weather

until you remember something funny that happened at work.

then I’ll chime in with a story I forgot to tell you last night.

Pretty soon we’ve been sitting there for an hour while our breakfast gets cold,

both knowing the other has to leave soon

but hoping we’re both willing to put off all that we have to do for the day

just to sit at that table a bit longer.

(I’ll just pretend I don’t have anything to do that day).

The love that I feel is pretty new, and I don’t know if I want to call it that yet.

I’ve never felt it before, and though this feeling rushes through me like a wildfire,

I don’t want you to know yet that I’m burning up.

That was cheesy.

I know it was, it’s all I can think of.

Cheesy sayings that you’d laugh at me for saying out loud,

because you’re not ready to admit what this is either.

If I admit that my heart is on fire for you, then you’d have to do the same

(because I know you feel it too, and you’re a terrible liar).

But fires burn out, either in great conflagrations

(a word I know you’d like, along with defenestrate)

or tiny embers.

It can’t keep burning forever,

just like we’re not always going to have things to talk about.

So let’s promise each other this

(or rather, I’ll make the promise and pretend you told me the same):

our love won’t be a fire, it will be a match.

It could burn us both down in the right circumstance, but we won’t let it get to that point.

Just knowing it could burn fast and bright should be enough.

I don’t think I really like drinking.

I do it enough that I should know by now whether I enjoy it or not. I mean, I know I prefer gin over tequila and rum above all else, but I still don’t particularly enjoy the burn as it goes down. Once it’s down though, it’s all the same. I’ll pour a few fingers worth of whiskey and gulp it down straight just to pretend I’m tough and can appreciate a stiff drink, even when I’m alone in my apartment. Isn’t that what writers do? If it helps me reach my creative headspace, then what’s a little alcohol poisoning?

Waking up with a headache and only a handful of sentences to show for it is a routine I’ve become all too accustomed to. I like to think that I like at least one of the things in this routine, either the drinking or the writing. I do one to fuel the other, but it turns out it’s a lot easier to be successful at pouring yourself drinks than filling up a Word document. It also turns out that I’m a lot more scared of an empty bottle than an empty page. I don’t know when this started, but changing at this point seems like more trouble than it’s worth. If I’m required to edit sober, I’ll get there when I actually have something to edit.