The After Hour

The room is as we left it,

a shrine of jubilation,

solemn in the grey morning glow.

The cutting board askew, knife unwashed,

cheap cheese upon discount crackers,

washed down with wine in teacups.

It smells of stale cigarettes,

we coat the walls in perfume until our noses sigh,

the blankets forlorn upon the floor.

Headaches are flushed with water,

aches are soothed by coffee,

in the melancholy of the morning after.

There is always silence when the party’s over,

deep, piercing and hollow,

where the ghosts of yesterday echo the loudest.

I’ll spend my day tidying away,

forcing a smile in the aftermath,

and write ribboned invitations for the next.

What little life I have left

shall be ever golden,

chasing rainbows.