It’s a Thursday.
The sun shines through a crack in your window
and you stretch out your body, moving this way and that.
You’re on the floor,
sitting amongst strewn clothes, books and records.
You should be sad but you’re not,
just kind of sleepy really.
You pile shoes and papers into a crate labelled ‘his things’.
A bird is whistling in the distance,
or maybe it’s a child crying.
it all sounds the same.