The liquor is being sipped

at a continual rate

of boredom and hopefulness.

We’re gathered in a circle,

sinking into fine leather cushions,

pretending we are comfortable

with our positions in life.

But we’re all dreading the new semester,

the government loans,

the pressure to get our shit together.

In silence we drink to the pleasant times

we once had and the fear

that those good times were only for youth.

It’s getting to our heads that

the future isn’t always bright

and that the pain of it all is dimmed

with vodka, rum, and coke.

It’s another night and time is fleeting,

but we’ve too little power to do much

but sink into fine leather cushions

and think about those good times.

We don’t have the money to travel

and we’ve been too broken to fall in love again.

It’s a clattered, bruised, and messy arrangement

of young adults,

pursuing their dreams to not fail

their parents and to not end up on streets

littered by garbage newsprint about

a world that never stops fighting.

It’s warmer and safer to stay at home,

to feel aloof with the comfort of a few shots.

It’s not sad or hopeless,

just confused and afraid.

They say it’ll be over in due time,

but even adults never know what they’re doing

with their mortal life,

something so frail it can be taken by the prick

of a knife.

And so we drink to the nights where

we’re not too afraid to laugh or love.

We welcome those times to come back,

to revisit us from a place of nostalgia.

It would be nice to not have to drink

to feel something a little less temporary

than life.


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