Hangover

Six o'clock.
Sun pours through my blinds,
and I begin to move. I shift,
wormlike, ensconced in thoughts
of other minds.
A ghostly drizzle and drift
Come through the showerhead. I lift
my blemished psyche with its rots
to be cleansed, opened, polished. I unlock
the mailbox, pull out unwrapped, half-assed gift
after mundane gift from coworkers and friends,
then shuffle back to where it starts and ends.
I stop the alarm clock.

I eat my usual oatmeal with tea
(no berries this time; I must go to the store.)
I turn on the TV, everything's a bore.
I look outside, the raindrops still obscure
my windows like they did the night before.

I try to recollect,
I try to remember,
I try to ponder,
I try to resurrect,
I try to wonder
if it was nothing, that night in late November,
when he and I met up and got to chatting...

Damn!
The kettle hisses,
boiling over.
I set my thought process aside,
Focus solely on the action...
Steam scalds me, and I still feel his kisses
eliciting such tender moans,
reactions,
jagged breaths drawn in and out
between enormous groans...
The room
felt so immense and turbulent
for what felt like hours...
We lay there, spent,
two youths gasping for breath, the scent of flowers
wafting in through open windows to cover
his mess of cute blond hair, and mine of brown...
I can still see that little semi-frown,
that cute moue...
Another nameless lover
is shattered by the Lethe of hangover.

And after this,
after the bottles lying around my room,
after the pain prescribed to end all pain,
after the feelings of doom,
will I be whole again,
like I was then?

The scent of flowers in the morning
is making my head erupt with memories
of black crepe and an unopened tomb
with the only hope of resurrection
contained inside my head,
contained inside the bottle,
contained inside the lilac.