He said he was getting ready for summer,

working on his beach bod,

and my mind went god knows where.

He gazed forlornly at my plate

of leftover tuxedo cake.

"We can split it."

He took my fork with a sigh,

"Dad bods are in now, right?"

He called them "chest pubes,"

tufts of golden brown hair through

the undone buttons of his black button-up.

Loose tie, sleeves rolled up,

a blush from exertion across his face,

the slightest sheen on his brow,

and a grin on his face.

Idiot.

Don't look at me like that.

I stretched to feel the satin stir,

touched noses to my cat,

turned off my alarm.

I woke up,

and everything was fine,

despite the night before,

when time was lost in tears and curses,

and declarations of never wanting

to wake up again.

I woke up.

Later, I will sleep.

If not for the drama,

this would be monotony,

but instead,

this is peace.

The taste of you sticks to my throat,

bitter and unforgiving

despite all the time and wine

I've had to wash you down.

You were my undoing,

and every one could see it,

more problems than man,

but I loved you.

And even now,

at the end,

I'll defend you.

Education is overrated;

or so I tell myself,

cradling textbooks uncracked,

and crumpled grade reports.

Academically ineligible

is too elevated a phrase

for a drop-out to comprehend.