I wasn't flying.

Peeled back pasty eyed I wasn't riding on a pink cloud.

Last night was I really crowdsurfing?

I'm too old for this; believe me I'm not proud.

There's a haze clementine perfume in the air.

On the floor sits my beachwear.

On the celling, my words spell sentences.

My love confessions.

The one I'd confessed before downing the three bottle of vodka that you'd hidden under the countertop.

Later maybe I'll crawl and beg in repentance.

Alcohol on my breath sticky on my skin, this feels like the start of depression.

To kick this I need enough caffeine to fill a coffee shop.

Wobbled leg I stand.

Somehow I'm still trapped in a sort of fairyland.

I'm still riding on the pink cloud.