1.47am.

I vaguely remember someone telling me that

Words

At 1.47am,

Will always be soaked in alcohol.

Drunk and nonsensical.

With an honesty that I cannot trust.

Because all will be forgotten

After the hangover

And all that is left will be a

Splitting headache and a sick gut.

I also overheard a few kids talking at the void deck of my block that

Words

At 1.47am,

Will always be like cigarette smoke.

Visible but never felt.

Said as a passing remark and nothing more.

Because they are just to fill the air and

After there is nothing to burn,

All that is left will be a

Smell that softly lingers on and a few burnt sticks on the ground.

But no one ever whispered into my ear that

Words

At 1.47am,

Will always be like dirty sex.

Intimate and too close for comfort.

Voiced out on impulse and hitting it right where it hurts.

Because they are too tired to lie and sugarcoat

After the tears and sweat and

And all that is left will be a

Stained sheets and caresses that will haunt your memory on end.

Advertisements