Lost Hours

Tuesday morning, sun too bright.

My head, a drum, a dull, dead weight.

On the floor, a crumpled napkin, grease stain.

Seven numbers, scrawled in blue, a stranger's name?

Monday night. After nine. Nothing.

Just static. A blurry corner, maybe wood.

A loud laugh that isn't mine.

Or was it? The cold dread spreads,

like spilled wine on a cheap white cloth.

Where was I? Who was I?

This blank space, this gaping hole,

where an entire night should be.

It's not just forgetting. It's a theft.

And I don't know what was taken,

or what I gave away.