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post460.

it's too late for it to be night
but it's too early for it to be morning
in this time of the day
when the clock seems to stand still
he waits, alone
on the well-used sofa
coffee long forgotten, gone cold
the other cup is covered but
it's gone cold too

the door clicks open
with the jingle of keys
monotonously, by habit
he goes to make another
pot of caffeine
already too used to the
smell of too much
alcohol, sweat and cigarettes

and it scares him
that all he cares about
is that the other man
is in the toilet puking
his guts out
and not why he's still
living in this house
that smells too much
of overused things of
convenience.


and my nose is dribbling out mucus.