"that's just life",
crickets fill your melancholic walk
as you come to your own reflection.
looking a bit less than yourself
in the glare of an UberX window.
i am the safe place you come back to,
at 2AM, just someone's after hours -
when i should be studying Foucault,
counting sheep and masters applications.
but, i’m here - stroke backs with short quips,
on how this is the last time -
like your sweater with the security tag,
you burn off your evening just to use me.
so i sit still, look pretty, find comfort,
wash off your hands from the floors of clubs,
and sometimes the Portland hot dog stand.
you kiss me with dilated pupils, a soft member,
and the insecurity of your own lack of purpose.
i wake up next week with a fever from hell,
my friend hangs up on me in anger,
i miss the streetcar home, so you meet me,
to make it more about you. of course
you’ve been through the same thing too -
push me off your arms, to tell me, well,
"that's just life".