We spent our weekends in the clubhouse.
Hangovers didn’t exist and neither did sunlight or conversation.
We kept the club stocked with scotch and dishware engraved with a date that felt like a lifetime ago.
Time didn’t matter in the clubhouse; we measured hours by refills.
You daydreamed of millionaires and yet, it was my debt you put to work.
Your notebooks were filled with the same chicken scratch life plans: getting the fuck away from here.
I was starting to forget what it meant to be here.
To be present.
To be happy.
To be loved.
My thoughts were prohibited in the clubhouse; one peep from me and I’d be sent upstairs.
Upstairs is where our reality lived: overdue bills, broken fixtures, broken marriage.
You locked yourself downstairs most nights and muffled our memories with breakup songs on repeat.
The day you left the clubhouse was the same day you left me.
You had your nightwear on; you were dressed for a dream.
I’m sure you found yourself another clubhouse and the notebooks are overfilled with plans.
I wonder if you can finally say I’m happy to be anywhere but fucking there.