The sun creeps in like a thief—

Too bright. Too loud.

It spills through cracked blinds

And stains the mess I left behind.

My head’s a drum.

Shoes by the door, keys on the floor,

And the mirror—

Well, she’s laughing again.

Did you win the night, or lose the fight?

What did you find when you stepped outside?

The morning after hits like a curse,

Midnight ashes in a Sunday verse.

Ghosts of laughter, shadows thin,

And I’m a stranger under my skin.

Street sounds crawl through the quiet.

Another taxi hums,

Another cigarette burns,

And I hum back—half a song I’ve forgotten.

The night was mine

(or maybe it wasn’t).

I don’t know where I stopped—

Or started.

What do you call it when silence sings?

The echo of nights we can’t keep brings…

The morning after hits like a curse,

Midnight ashes in a Sunday verse.

Ghosts of laughter, shadows thin,

And I’m a stranger under my skin.

What if I stayed?

Would the walls stop spinning?

Would the questions quit grinning?

But the city—she calls me again.

Another dusk. Another try.

She doesn’t care if I lie.

The morning after hits like a curse,

Midnight ashes in a Sunday verse.

We lit the match, we let it spin,

But who’s the stranger waking within?

And maybe I’ll stay home next time—

But I say that every morning.