Wake up in a slight daze
like the hanging haze when something in the kitchen is burning
but it’s the fog of hangovers, dizzying post nights
flash cards of kisses, songs, and maybe tears

all kinds of parts of me ache with bruises and bite marks
there’s opened chasers, flung boots, bottles under the bed
I spot your red lipstick imprinted on ashed cigarettes and beer cans
and when I go take a ****, I discover your ******* in my pocket

I see your text, “Home. Had a blast. Miss ya! ***”
and I am no longer haunted by some vague lingering feeling
that somehow this was a ****** scene
instead of our raw rituals of love