Daybreak & Bottle

The light, it doesn't care.

Just spills in, sharp and thin,

across the floor, where that take-out menu lies,

folded like a bad confession.

And the smell. Stale beer, a ghost

of something loud that passed.

The bottle on the table, half-full, maybe less,

with its dried ring, a perfect stain.

My tongue feels like a sweater someone left

in the rain. Nothing is crisp.

Nothing feels like it did in the dark.

Just this, this flat, undeniable fact

of morning. No grace. No turning back.