This could be going better.
The bleary headaches.
The fuzzy mornings after.
The promise.
The confide.
The terrible wake of feeling
and not.
This morning.
It was gone... I couldn't imagine the face.
Couldn't draw, recollect, or create.
Just wasn't there.
I felt like there should be more.
Something that hurt.
Something missing.
Something dead and dragging...
Freedom.
Horrible
Horrible
Freedom.
I found myself in strange
alert
sober states
in strange
orange
places.
Hilltop dusks.
Smoking a cigarette.
Rooftop sunrises.
Smoking a cigarette.
Where was the end,
where was the start?
If I face the wrong side of the wrong day
does it really matter?
And more importantly
have I ever, really been here before?
Maybe not so much here
as been.