Worth the Pain
The earth’s actually flat and Harry must have fallen off of it. He was quite clumsy—you had scars from the countless occasions he couldn’t navigate around his own feet and brought you down with him—so him managing to fall off the edge of the earth wasn’t a stretch of the imagination.
At least he better be floating through deep space, otherwise there was no reason your texts and calls should have gone unanswered the last three days. No other reason you would accept, anyway.
When you’d woken up, brain foggy and mouth dry, you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten home, let alone anything that had actually happened. It wasn’t until you reached for your phone—after growing accustomed the dull ache in your skull—and saw the Bukowski poem that you remembered what happened. And you’d laid in bed for a while, trying to figure out how to move forward. Should you text Harry? Call him? Read into the fact that his last poem was much less explicit than the previous and maybe it meant he was trying to tell you something?