You speak in glazed words and liquored rings on the wooden table, sparkling with a sense of triumph. I do my best to feign interest, yet fall short as bare eyes rest yearningly on the grey clouds beyond windows fogged by the steaming remnants of conversation.

Burnt and shaken, I’ll always return home and lay entangled in ivory sheets like a fat happy cat.
Return and recharge. Only to do it all again.
Hiding in black coffee and clever whispers and an inexhaustable sense of camouflage.

I’m stripping down, peeling flesh.
And all the while able to understand you less and less.