A Moment in Morning

I was asleep for a year and when I woke I had fallen into a new existence. The day ahead, the house around, the girl next to. My hands were caked in paint and callused from the guitar strings. My throat was dried from singing and drinking and in the dark of the bare bedroom, in the company of her, I inhaled and this was the May morning, this cold and dark Friday in January, this. The breath came easy and welcomed. The day, though I'd bitch, was worth finishing. I had known it was coming, and sometimes I must have almost forgotten that. 

Crawl out of bed in the blue dawn and glance back at the hint of shoulder under the comforter, note the cups marked with the residue of chianti on the dresser and the soft carpet under my feet. Piss in the "en suite". Pull open the bedroom door to the house I didn't deserve, but had somehow acquired, to the day I didn't deserve, but had somehow found myself rutted in. It was as stuck with me as I was with it. Into the kitchen where the coffee had brewed a half hour before. 

Coffee. Put together a breakfast and while the bacon and eggs cooked, I would shower.

Standing in the shower and trying to remember how I got here.

I remember the descent. The crash. Bottom. Then nothing.   

Now I wake. Now I shamble through my large and empty house. Now I kiss the girl goodbye and now I know. Yes.

Now I know it will get better.

It had to, and it did.