For months on end he did not shave.
A cracked bathroom mirror would glare under fog,
Chalk-white walls clouding over:
Perceptive, he would think,
Lips tugging futilely,
A shadow of a wry grin.
His fingers would tremble around the cool unsympathetic tap,
Every noon, waking up with scarlet vision,
His feet would thud noisily on hardwood floors,
Absence a smug, darkly alive companion.
Wads of wrinkled paper would roam the rooms,
Bleeding ink scabbing over,
Watching as he pulled on fading shirt over crumbling slacks.
His lips would quake around dirty ceramic
Full beyond the brim with lukewarm tea.
His keys would clang as they fell to the floor
After he swayed and stumbled a zig-zag to the door.
Strange people would tell him to learn to behave,
But for months on end, he did not shave.