Reconstructing lost people’s possessions
to barricade it all away in boxes.
Drinking old coffee even though you hate it
when it’s fresh because you haven’t seen
your dreams for several days now.
You eat the mushrooms from the plastic
bag in her underwear drawer and stare
directly at your reflection in the chrome
fridge. You quickly decide you don’t like
what you see, and try to sleep it all off on
the couch. You remember the last time you
we’re far away from there and how you
made yourself miserable anyway.
Deliberately agitating yourself with all the
aimless roaming like a monk with sharp
chains on the road.
You wonder where she is now, but hope all
your guesses are wrong, mixing the
melancholy flavors in your mouth like
milk and chocolate syrup. Creating nothing
more than a headache full of sound.

One thought on “Headache

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