Morning Blur

Sunlight creeps in slow and stiff,

a drunk shadow across the threadbare floor.

Empty bottles, a crumpled shirt,

a room that hums with yesterday’s noise.

My tongue tastes stale regret,

tangled in the fog thick as breath held too long.

The ceiling spins stories I can’t follow,

words lost in the blur of too much.

Hands reach out, uncertain, for some steadiness,

a pillow pressed heavy against aching skin.

The morning drags on, a half-remembered fight,

a quiet war fought behind closed eyes.

All that’s left is the weight—

a heaviness that doesn’t lift,

and the taste of mistakes settling deep.