UNTITLED [1]

In the bitter mornings, Like medicine from the place I used to be, It's aftertaste lingering, Bile in the back of my throat. The sort of taste that never really leaves, You get used to the flavor after a while, And it may even melt like spun sugar, The carnival of your last summer, But all the same, It's like, Medicine from the place I used to be, And I wake in the bitter morning.