the pillows  smell of that dampness
and i am having that old  headache again
there is nothing  to do
the night outside gives the illusion
of an infinite free time

an old excuse
and old refuge
from everybody's eyes

yet tomorrow shall arrive
not with promises
but with a list of "to dos"

for whom?
and where to go?
i shall wait for the night
with infinite free time
with its illusion of tomorrow

and my home feels like this
like a yellow postcard from 1996
like happiness
at half-session declared at school
for the heavy rains
to return home and look lazily at
the black n white
illustrations of a rapid reader book

a home where nobody would be a guest
a home that shall drown with me