On The. Through The. Under The.

On the phone I said I felt like my Dad and
she said he was a good man to feel like
and it was then that I felt the air rip
from my lungs in a Euro Tunnel rush
of everything I wanted to say but never
could.

Through the wall I heard someone throwing up
and I thought that sick sounds different
when being spat up into a toilet bowl;
after the splashes have subsided into something more delicate
comes the ceramic whisper of the drinks you should've
bought instead of the shots you downed in
an attempt to get with the other sex.

Under the door came the shadow of a waiting hand ready to knock, one that belonged to someone I knew but not well enough to let it, so I hung up the phone and took a deep breath, catching back the breath I had lost originally.