The sky was iron too when you showed me that bridge Morrissey mentioned. "I hope you don't take this as a 'signal'..." you said, before you told me about The Smiths song, explained the history of that place. It was difficult. And yet such an ugly place, concrete twisted through with rattling chain links. They couldn't stop the wind.
It was the next day and everyone else had left when I was vomiting eleven times (I counted) in the toilet of your apartment. You were there in bed, facing the wall as I came and went, came and went. I'd fall back beside you for thirty seconds, before I had to climb up again. You said you were impressed by how close I was cutting it. I always just reached the bathroom before I vomited.
The next morning we had orange juice (not all had been mixed into the vodka) and croissants. Even jam. The sky was more or less clear by then, though it was still cold.
These nights I'm sat on my carpet by the light switch, hitting it whenever the next wave of nausea comes, so I can stare at the book shelves and imagine the world isn't spinning quite so much. So tired that I have to learn to sleep by increments in those small intervals. The ones when I've just switched the light back off, where I've managed to forget that there's walls all about me.
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