Fuzzy Light

The blinds bleed light,

a weak, yellow smear.

Head thrums like a bad engine.

Tongue a dry, stale sponge.

Found the glass, tipped over,

empty, a faint slick

of lipstick on the rim, a stain

from last night's loud joke.

Sheets tangled, a mess

of fabric and bad decisions.

My body feels borrowed,

slow to respond.

Just the sour taste,

and the insistent, dull pulse.

No grand pronouncements.

Just this slow, sick crawl back to now.