I sleep on sheets covered in beer and carry boxes of bottles to the trash room, boxes and sheets and smells that could get me in trouble with the people who wear uniforms
And I put my head on the shoulder beside me and everything is sweat and stale alcohol and three am and I was supposed to do more homework tonight. I was supposed to get more done and go to bed so much earlier.
But here I am, tired and lying beneath Kenyan blankets, atop Blue Moon covers, lightly taking your phone off your chest and setting it away as you slip into sleep beside me
Here I am, bringing you trash bags I bought with my own money, carrying a box of illegalities I didn’t drink to the recycling, leaning into your flanneled embrace in the Sunday morning quiet of the hallway

I will take care of you, no questions asked
I will always take care of you

Before sleep’s waves, in the dark, holding my hand to yours and telling you that I am here to talk— and knowing you will never take me up on it.
Asking you questions because it’s my job, and you say I do it too well, and we both know that that avoids the question in the first place.

I will take care of you, asked questions unanswered
It is 3 am on a Sunday, and I will take care of you
Always.