Sunday, 8.00 am,
Rain trickles down a cold grey windowpane,
I stare through the speckled glass,
Drawing a smiley face in the condensation.
The aroma of smoke and cheap perfume,
Lingers in last night’s clothes,
Carelessly strewn in a haphazard trail,
Leading to the messy sheets of a bed,
I’ve barely slept in.
Jukebox songs still ring in my ears,
With the ghosts of laughter, chatter,
Images of people fighting for the bar,
Images that end abruptly.
I gnaw my fingernails nervously,
Trying to recall the journey home,
My head swims like a demented fish,
The rain applauds.