In a desert of napkins

A single fool lays , head pressed in shag

Ceiling spins, muted voices slur

Three in the morning

I’m a pagan for the good times.

Crumbs dance across the floor,

Resting upon a tired body.

Can’t think straight,

But I still think of you,

So awfully ironic.

This is the aftermath 

In my stupor,

I heard you call my name

But what was real, an

Interminable cycle of dreams.

My neck is sore, hearing the aches

echo through my draping skull 

But we smile, it was worth it?

Laying on the floor