n'est pas

Waking up near 4pm is bunk. Cause now that I'm dressed and fed the sun is going down, it's cold and cloudy, I'm listening to Iron and Wine and wanting to crawl into the bed of someone with the ability to make me as sad as these songs.
Everything new on the floor smells like someone else, someone lost to another time and another state. And while nothing is near as bad as it sometimes seems, the idea of bringing rooms back to before they knew all the possibilities floors me, below the floors, down to where I dream about rotting houses being slowly digested by kudzu.
I can't even remember what belongs here anymore, when I wake up I still see flat color squares, a window in the corner, someone looking down from that railing telling me heads up to catch everything and I still think it's falling somewhere I just don't know.