in-betweeners

Here we are,
in the morning.
Your legs wrapped around my ankles
lying in bed.
The gloomy morning is surprisingly hot,
and all you can afford to give me is a lazy
“morning”,
and I give you back a content smile.
You twist and stretch your body
crumbling and rustling papers filled with poems from last night
and reach over
and light up your half smoked blunt
and I grab and kiss the warm lips
of the handle of Gin, sitting by the side
of the bed
from last night.
Gently,
I kiss the bite marks of her name on your neck I left last night,
and you,
gently
trace his name across the scars you left on my chest last night,
and it’s all fine. A couple of
in-betweeners
losing…something, in this purgatory
of bed sheets,  papers of poems, Blunts of Mary Jane and handles of Gin
and somewhere in my mind I wonder
you do too, I assume
“What if…”
“What if we weren't survivals of a past freak accident?”
“What if we had crashed and burned with each other, not victims of a series of unfortunate collision?”
“What if you were mine, and I was yours and neither one of us belong to someone else?”
What if this, that, and a million other things
“What if…”
I’m drunk,
and you’re high,
and this is all bullshit.
It’s just us;
a couple of in-betweeners
lying.