Disclaimer: Own nothing, own nothing.
Author's Notes: LuLu's back and better than ever ;D FEAR ME (ohoho, you know what I mean. Heehee ^^) Written while listening to the last few songs on Howie Day's Australia. Gorgeous CD. And again I'm doing what I do best -- repetition. Woo. I didn't write this with any particular characters in mind, so take it however you like.
The Morning After
by LuLu
The morning after, he wakes up, his eyelids slack with lethargy, and finds himself staring at the rotting wooden frame, rusting metal springs and stained white coverings of the mattress above him.
The morning after, his neighbor above makes the springs creak long and screechy when he rolls over, and he buries his head in his pillow to drown out the noise.
The morning after, the flattened pillow takes the opportunity to whisper to him, sometimes hushed, sometimes angry, sometimes grieving, but the words are always the same.
The morning after, his neighbor's bare feet hit the floor, and they squelch the floor beneath him.
The morning after, his feet do the same, but as he rolls out of bed he only sees the silhouettes of motion in the sheets, like the whispers, sometimes varying in intensity, but always there just the same.
The morning after, he never makes his bed, and goes about his daily routine instead, making every breath symbolic of distracted recollection.
The morning after, he goes into the bathroom and he shaves and scrapes the rough edges of manhood off of his chin, and brushes his teeth and washes the traces of acidity from his mouth.
The morning after, he dresses, buttoning every stubborn button and tying every thick, coarse lace with hesitant fingers, easily distracted by his mind.
The morning after, he remembers his dreams, but has forgotten who was in them with him, as if…as if…
The morning after, it stops here, and he realizes it.
The morning after, like every other morning after, he comes to terms with the fact that he slept with a ghost, a ghost who stayed the night but erased tangible existence and elusive memory in the morning.
The morning after, he wishes it didn't have to be this way.
Author's Notes: LuLu's back and better than ever ;D FEAR ME (ohoho, you know what I mean. Heehee ^^) Written while listening to the last few songs on Howie Day's Australia. Gorgeous CD. And again I'm doing what I do best -- repetition. Woo. I didn't write this with any particular characters in mind, so take it however you like.
The Morning After
by LuLu
The morning after, he wakes up, his eyelids slack with lethargy, and finds himself staring at the rotting wooden frame, rusting metal springs and stained white coverings of the mattress above him.
The morning after, his neighbor above makes the springs creak long and screechy when he rolls over, and he buries his head in his pillow to drown out the noise.
The morning after, the flattened pillow takes the opportunity to whisper to him, sometimes hushed, sometimes angry, sometimes grieving, but the words are always the same.
The morning after, his neighbor's bare feet hit the floor, and they squelch the floor beneath him.
The morning after, his feet do the same, but as he rolls out of bed he only sees the silhouettes of motion in the sheets, like the whispers, sometimes varying in intensity, but always there just the same.
The morning after, he never makes his bed, and goes about his daily routine instead, making every breath symbolic of distracted recollection.
The morning after, he goes into the bathroom and he shaves and scrapes the rough edges of manhood off of his chin, and brushes his teeth and washes the traces of acidity from his mouth.
The morning after, he dresses, buttoning every stubborn button and tying every thick, coarse lace with hesitant fingers, easily distracted by his mind.
The morning after, he remembers his dreams, but has forgotten who was in them with him, as if…as if…
The morning after, it stops here, and he realizes it.
The morning after, like every other morning after, he comes to terms with the fact that he slept with a ghost, a ghost who stayed the night but erased tangible existence and elusive memory in the morning.
The morning after, he wishes it didn't have to be this way.