the ceiling fan rattles like a dying thing,
spinning dust and regret in slow, deliberate circles.
it’s 2:56 a.m. and the city outside
hums with the kind of life that doesn’t invite you in.
neon glows like a cheap woman’s lipstick,
and somewhere, some lucky bastard
is sinking into warm skin,
while I sit here with my dick in my hand
and a coke sweating itself into the table.
I used to have a girl —
she smelled like vanilla and regret,
moaned like a prayer whispered to a dead god.
there’s a half-eaten sandwich on the counter,
a pile of bills that don’t care if I live or die,
and a cockroach making its slow pilgrimage
across my stained kitchen floor.
it’s the only thing that shares this place with me
without asking for something in return.
outside, a car backfires like a shotgun.
somewhere, a dog barks.
I take another sip of coke, warm and flat,
and wonder if I should go outside,
find a fight,
find a woman,
find something to remind me
that I am still a man
and not just a ghost
watching the world fuck without me.
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