The privacy of a bathroom stall and
And two roommates
A triple by any other name

so closely identifying with
the toothpaste **** in
the sink
its like a skin, you know
the grime
it keeps things warm
but the conclusion, forever missing
the ever elusive reason why
(akin to opening a door to an empty room)
is mysteriously absent

the room is empty and I can throw my head against the wall with abandon

sighing, of course
to the ever present accompaniment
of fallen beauty products on a
gross tile floor slick with intentions

the room is occupied and I lift my head from the wall with cautious precision

these walls are thin and I hear
the meaningless sounds of people going about their day
the trite sound of a dropping book
or a sweatshirt being unzipped

the room is empty again, and will be for a while,  and the poster behind my shoulder curls in protest as I shift my shoulders to think better