the long weekend has spilled
over to the balconies
in the building opposite. i see a bit
through the glass window and its
flimsy curtain, and sense a lot through
the laughter that could
have been a little more sincere if
it wasn’t so loud – it is indeed
difficult for some to relax on a holiday.
after spiralling and drilling a little
less than a thousand times in my bed
the only hole is in my head through
which all my thoughts are leaking
profusely. the duvet has become
a lump of softness, becoming
often the bed and often the cover.