Being young but unable to go out
Being able to go out but not feel young
The sky is nothing but a wide stare
into dry nothingness.
The drinks are a distant memory.
The moon smiles on the empty cities.
There's nobody to smile back.
The Monday mornings are not hated.
The Friday nights aren't to be thanked
in as much as opening
a canned sardine
with the edge of a dull knife.

Going to bed is not a rare occasion.
Staying in it is ubiquitous.
There's no race against a clock.
We're waiting to be freed
from our own homes.
As if the constant crowds
gave us joy in the first place.
Waiting...
to soar like a bird
and have the bliss
of a stained liver once again.