"We’re not going to talk tonight. We’re going to drink tequila and fuck. We’ll talk tomorrow."

​

​

Is it weird that I still think of you? That when I think of you I stare at my feet? That I can think of you and my mouth will hug one side in that teenage kind of way?

 

I kept that photo of you wearing my old shirt––the green one that didn’t fit you, the one you took, the one that before you put it on you told me, “I’m still angry with you. But we’re not going to talk tonight. We’re going to drink tequila and fuck. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

​

It’s been three years. Do you still have my shirt? Because I still have your tequila.

 

(Image: ©Noah Jashinski)