GHB

You won’t wake

up again.

You won’t wake

up again.

You woke up late

with a handful

of hair.

Last night,

so gone

except for a taste

clings,

magnetized

remains unmoved.

Did it grow there?

Is it yours?

Somehow you recall

the moon’s

underbelly,

a balcony,

wringing hands

footsteps

through the french

doors

turning your head.

A metal scream

then

nothing.