St. Angelica

Late
and I'm driving home.
Sad song plays on the radio, the taste of cigarettes masked by the sweetness of Angelica.
I know this is the room where I live, but it is not home. It is the place of my belongings and where I listen to the sounds of life. And in the restless hour, where voices sleep, I stare at the blue light glow of ceiling shadows, making patterns of what my mind paints.