Eleven O’Clock

It was on that old second-hand pull-out sofa,
That I found myself.
A glass that was emptied too many times, in my hand
And your head on my shoulder.
Melancholic music softly played in the background,
And was only overshadowed by our eleven o’clock breathing.

It was you, me, and the two perfect sinners:
Living in a heaven where we may still cry.

(PS: No longer adding the date to each poem as it’s unnecessary, and was a left-over habit from when this was a daily poetry journal)