Sometimes I wish I knew what true darkness was. Other times I could swear I see it in your eyes, in your shadow, in the empty beer bottle still hanging from your fingers. But right now all I see is your ceiling.
"Do ya think aliens are real?"
I turn my head toward you but you're still staring up. I trace your profile with my eyes and pretend, just like with every other time, that you don't notice. I blink and turn back to the ceiling. A shaft of blue light streaks across it.
"Yeah," I whisper, more or less. It is hard to tell.
"Same," you say, like a sigh. Your voice is always breathy but it's also low and I'm pretty sure I could fall asleep to it. "Like, everything's just so big. It can't just be us, right?"
You slur your r's. It's cute to me but I'm probably bias. If you were sober I'd tell you but you only accept compliments drunk—you also forget them. I will never tell you but that's because I'm selfish and cautious and way better at being sober than you are.
I think if I tel