he lies down the crumpled sheets
–alone on his cold bed
the booze on his bedside sweats
screaming drunk calls and after sex
he puts an unlit cigarette on his mouth
then throws the pack on the floor
he knows he'd pick it up on the morning
he thinks it's a metaphor
girls after girls, picking up only to throw away again
he knows he isn't right
he thinks he doesn't want to be right
