Halfway Between the Sheets and the Streets

Woke up sweating under the weight of something  

that was half real, half a joke my brain played  

on itself. A woman whispered in my ear, but  

her lips were just echoes of some lost desire.  

The city was burning, but I felt no heat, just  

a dull ache where dreams go to die slow.  

My hands, heavy with the residue of a life  

that didn’t quite happen, or maybe it did,  

but the whiskey blurred the edges like a knife  

that’s seen too much use, too much blood.  

The sun crawled in through the blinds, too  

weak to chase away the ghosts from the night.  

I wondered if she was real, or just another  

lie I told myself to make the mornings bearable.  

Somewhere in the haze, I lost the line between  

what was mine and what was just borrowed.  

Another day, another shot of whatever gets  

me through the day without too many questions.  

I don’t need answers, just a break from the  

truth that waits like a dog at my door, hungry  

for what’s left of me, if there’s anything left at all.