Wasted

The ambience of the room
perfectly complemented the dishevelment
of its occupier
as he warmed each bottle
of Châteauneuf-du-Pape
on a radiator near a large window
overlooking the edge of town

he never did allow a breath of calm
before pouring a glass of heartbreak—or wine.

Together we knocked them back at some pace
‘til we collapsed on the bedsheets
—wasted.

I lay awake listening as the dregs of nightlife
dried up and staggered home, I was still awake
when the lazy winter dawn
finally rose into a lighter shade of blue
I barely moved a muscle
just lay watching the pigeons flying up at the roof
through the condensation in the window
I wanted to open it
let the winter breeze flood the room
shock us both back to our senses
and to sobriety.

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