idle hours

 
After the alcohol is gone,
when the music finally dims
and the only audible sound
is the remnant of an empty track,
it's easy to ignore the ghosts
of a barren house when it's past 3 a.m.

The walls, laden with smoke,
no longer appear white-washed
in that skeletal reminder of claustrophobia.
They merely personify nullity the way
only a burnout can understand.

In those idle hours alexithymia thickens,
clouding the senses with numbing ease.
Provoking a fall into the cavity of every bottle,
the dreamless sleep that allows the mind to forget
even if it's only for a night.

Inebriated,
the loneliness never lessens
and the anger bleeds anew.
That is,
untill the darkness spreads.


I don't sip for pleasure
no,
I swallow for the ache.