The glass tipped slow against the dawn

The glass tipped slow against the dawn,

smudged rims kissed by fading night.

Floor scattered with empty bottles

like shards of a broken promise,

spilling memories that won’t settle.

The room smells of stale beer and sweat,

a hungover haze thicker than regret.

I lean on cracked windowsill,

sunlight harsh and unforgiving,

catching every bruise I couldn’t see.

Last night’s laughter clings like smoke,

flickering, fading, leaving behind

this ache that presses too close.

The morning waits,

with bruises I can’t ignore.