it must have been the prettiest room
but I don't remember much
except the white sheets
the abstract cushions
and a heap of clothes
some of which were neatly folded
the ceiling was white
and the rest was a collage
splattered like mad dots
Jackson pollocked gasps
ingrained on standard bed sets
or a cubist portrait
where there was a kettle
some tea bags
But you drank red bull
white towels
draped a torso and a loin
smudged deep
thickly most grievously
sharp inhales
whispered encourages
gouged in deranged paint
like the starry night
on a warm afternoon
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