A splitting headache shakes my brain,
this weekend has been a good one,
I spent my wealth on girls and games,
but resource left I have none.

The clock count seconds loud and dry,
the world becoming hardened,
in thirty minute this hotel room is not mine,
my presence won’t be pardoned.

I always thought I’d go out in flames,
an audience to grieve me,
but all my bridges have been burnt,
her absence is not freeing.

I strap my loafers on my feet,
and wrap bathrobe around me.
An impulse shakes my teenage brain,
this tired day will not sustain.

I launch my self over the railing,
300 feet above the street,
my tired arms not flailing.

In my bathrobe my phone comes to life,
and brings me more discomfort.

It is she,
the one for me,
whose bridge is decimated,
but what would she have said to me,
if another minute I had waited?