november sunday, 3pm

cold, tired bones from open windows
give us headaches like the winter.
red wine stained and blood drained
on a sunday afternoon,
we pop paracetamol and aspirin
or whatever comes to hand
(all non-brand because it’s cheaper
and we can’t afford the names)
and count down the next four hours
as our teeth begin to ache.

the floor is stella-littered,
stale warmth in slightly dented cans.
and tonight could be our last night,
so we remember to each other
faces we’d forgotten and girls we thought we loved
to songs we fell asleep to so many years ago.
outside, alive, the sky dims like a slowly dying light
as we close our eyes to thoughts of staplers and spreadsheets
and the crazed and hazy line between what went wrong and right.