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