140 stairs. 6 AM

it’s 6 AM

and i have 100 stairs left to walk.

here I am.

fuck.

i inhale deeply one more time, 

before I turn the key to the right,

slowly,

to not wake mom.

but mom is already getting ready for work.

as I am giving her my most tired hug,

I wonder if she can smell how many cigarettes I had after we closed the bar.

Saturday nights give me back pains, lazy feet and sometimes hangovers,

but I still don't want to go home earlier than 7 AM,

just to feel that I have lived a bit between work and sleep.

mom doesn't notice

or she refuses to see that i had a few beers.

she sometimes tells me that my hair smells like the bar.

and we’re sharing the little bed.

we are sharing everything since i moved in her little house.

I now know how much it takes her to get ready for work,

to take a shower

or how does her free time really look like.

for 15 years I had no idea.

it's overwhelming,

I have to admit.

but it's the best I can ask for,

as an alternative to being alone

in this city in which I don't belong.