Aftertaste

Empty glass tipped on its side,

caught the morning light,

smoke still curling in the corners of the room,

taste bitter and thick on my tongue.

I woke coughing, the air stale,

sticky bottles whispering in the sink,

a mess of last night’s quiet battles,

shadows stretched across the cracked window.

The bottle’s mouth never sweet,

a friend I can’t speak to,

a quiet with the loudest silence,

and the taste that never fades.

This morning I found no peace,

just the ache that follows—

a hollow stretched thin,

darkness holding its breath.