After the Bottle

That cracked bottle, half-buried in the curb,

caught the streetlight like a lie told too late.

Last night’s laughter spilled out in ragged shards,

sharp and sticky, sticking in my throat.

I woke with it there—

a sour burn thick as the morning fog,

tongue swollen with words I didn’t mean,

head pounding in the rhythm of broken streetlamps.

The city spun slow,

a dirty carousel stuck between dusk and dawn,

faces blurring with the dark glass,

whispers folding me in,

quiet as a wound that won’t stop aching.