I haven’t yet turned 21,
and still I lost myself
on a Saturday night,
laid in the arms of an angel,
fell asleep on a bed of feathers,
and woke up
to the sun.
But the light was not blinding enough
to hide the room,
Or the bed filled with cuckoo birds
and a face I no longer
And if you thought it was his, it was not.
It was mine.
Because try as I might,
I still can’t escape the calling