the lingering of lonely dry bones

you’re drunk, i say. close my eyes and let my head roll back against the soft cushions of the couch. you’re drunk and i think you should just go home. and i can hear the words floating in the air in the silence of the moments afterward. of him on the floor—the weight of his head resting against the side of my leg. i’d like to stay, his voice comes calm and resolute. no, i offer without hesitation, no, i don’t think that’s a good idea. he unfolds his arms and grabs my hand and there’s pain in it and hurt and anger and loneliness. suddenly, i realize my eyes are still closed.

see you later, we say when he leaves.
we don’t hug each other goodbye.