The Lost Hours

The ceiling fan spins a slow circle

and my head follows it with a throb.

There is a gap in the timeline

between the third beer and the sunrise.

I look down at my right hand

and see a string of numbers scrawled

in a blue ink that has bled into my skin.

The '8' and the '5' are fuzzy at the edges,

a stranger’s handwriting on my own body.

I don’t remember the pen.

I don’t remember the face.

I just have this ink on my knuckles

reminding me of a room I can’t find.