Oysters.
Dinner.
Dessert.
I’m wasted on poor company.
Booze is much better.
It’s the only chance to forget her.
What I want is sleep.
Who I want is sound asleep.
No messages.
It’s been morning for six hours.
And there’s nothing to show for it.
The light is off.
The sun is not yet up.
For some reason she’s still here.
And I have an empty cup.
Night or day,
asleep or awake,
when the light is off,
they become one and the same.