8.00 am

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.

 

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