Now I go home alone

The summer’s heat still lingered in the midnight air of the first day of September as I walked alone to the subway station that we had drunkenly floated into on so many occasions.  As I looked around at the many young and noisy groups of friends and couples, I was struck by the easy freedom of going home alone.  For a moment I considered walking awhile through the streets of the Lower East Side, just because I could.  But then I thought about you and about what had been us.  I remembered holding hands as we stumbled, laughing and kissing, down the street.  I remembered ripping a button off your winter coat when I clutched it to keep my balance as I flailed myself dramatically in front of you, shouting something about love and adventure and not wanting to grow up.  And then I remembered dropping onto your bed and nestling together beneath the sheets.  Sometimes the whiskey or the tequila would cause our skin to burn with a half-asleep need to enact a quick, familiar scene of touch and movement.  Other times we would fall asleep almost instantly, our bodies cradling each other in a comfortable exhaustion.  I slept better those nights than I ever sleep alone.